Rare Form: Descended of Dragons, Book 1 (5 page)

Knox paused as if it was a struggle to continue the story. He still looked in my direction, but he no longer saw me. His eyes had become shiny, distant. I began to fidget, and nervously cleared my throat. He blinked, looked at me as if he’d forgotten I was there, and smiled once more. The sad little moment was over.

“The sorcerer’s plan failed in the end,” he went on, “despite slaughtering the majority of the Gnome and Fae people, he never obtained the power to influence nature.”

“No?” I asked dreamily.

I was engrossed in his story. He had a particularly brilliant ability to make a connection, one I felt keenly. He was probably a very popular bartender.

“No,” he said. “You see, in his arrogance, what the wizard didn’t understand is that the wee people never controlled the seasons or our plant life. They’re merely stewards. They possessed the magic to tend the lands, and were honored to do so. But when their numbers fell so tragically the magic fell to Thayer itself, whose citizens took up the task.”

As he told the story, he’d made his way to stand across the bar from me, and leaned across the wood to rub his thumb up and down my arm. He circled the underside of my wrist with each down stroke light as a feather. I’d become so absorbed in the story and was so intently studying the etchings in the wood that I hadn’t even realized he was doing it. I pulled my hand away, scowling, not sure if I was upset at myself for becoming so easily bespelled or at him for touching me so intimately when we were so
not
intimate.

My rebuff didn’t seem to faze him, because he only backed away and picked up a dishtowel to dry a pint glass, continuing his story without a hitch.

“Over time, the Gnome and Fae who survived repopulated and eventually the magic of harvest, and of nature itself, returned to its rightful stewards.”

“What a tragic story,” I breathed. “But such a beautiful ending.”

I thought of the small man Gresham had brought to the coffee shop as proof of Thayer’s existence and supernatural nature. I wanted to know the gnome better. And I wanted to meet a fairy. I had so much to learn.

“I’m sorry,” I said as an afterthought. “What’s a Fae?”

He looked at me as if I’d sprouted ears of my own and turned his head from side to side as he tried to figure me out.

“You are new here, aren’tcha Ginger?”

“Ha. Yes, quite,” I evaded. “Tell me, what happened to the dragons?”

“All gone. The people of Thayer went to war in retribution for the stewards’ massacre. Not a dragon’s been seen since then. We got them all.”

“And the sorcerer?”

“He lives. None know where. Many suspect he waits in hiding, in anticipation of the day he once again tries to overtake Thayer. But dinna fash, Ginger, we’ll be ready for him this time. And he’s got no dragons.”

“My name is Stella,” I said with force. “And you can’t tell me that a sorcerer who lived centuries ago is still alive somewhere. People don’t live that long.”

“Aye, they do. Just ask your bodyguard here. Why, he’s been a—”

“Thank you, Knox, for that fascinating account of our tragic history,” growled Gresham, who until then had been markedly absent from our conversation. I hadn’t noticed his absence, but at that point he crossed the room to me.

“I’m sure your efforts were really paying off, right up to the point you insulted her. You’re slipping. Better work on your delivery.”

Gresham grabbed me by the elbow and urged me out of the bar area.

“We’re leaving.”

Knox’s eyes held mischief and he gave a sly grin.

“Goodbye, Stella. If you manage to shake this old boring one, you know where to find me.”

After nodding his head toward Gresham so that there was no question who he found so boring, Knox winked at me. The face that first held that mischievous grin then took on a more determined look. I got the feeling that there was a back-story between he and Gresham.

Gresham overly-forcefully deposited me through the double doors, and I swung around to face him.

“What crawled up your ass and died?” I demanded.

He just looked at me, blank-faced, and blinked. Then blinked again.

“Who farted on your Fage? It’s a Greek yogurt. They’re idioms… Never mind. Good god, Gresham, do you even have a sense of humor?”

Mr. Tall Dark and Menacing puffed up. “Oh!” he said, affronted. “I have a sense of humor.. And I am a lot of fun, I’ll have you know.”

That, I seriously doubted. He had the whole sexy and mysterious thing going for him, but I couldn’t see him cracking jokes, much less throwing back cold ones with the guys or hitting the dance floor.

“What was that all about with you and Knox, anyway? That was a seriously bad vibe.”

“I have known Knox Mahon for a very long time. He considers himself the ultimate ladies’ man. I place a high value on honor, and I…I find he has none.”

“Yeah, I get that. But why would his predilections have such a violent effect on you? What did he do that was so dishonorable?”

That was a question he did not want to address, because he gritted his teeth, the flexing of his jaw muscles a visible indicator of his irritation. “I have some business to attend across campus,” he said. “I thought you might like to get to know a few students. Do you mind if I leave you in the common room, the Grand Hall, for a while?”

Though his moods were giving me whiplash, I didn’t object. In fact, I looked forward to exploring on my own.

I
found
my way to the upper levels of the building…castle…whatever, and aimlessly wandered the halls. This was so like college, but so
un
like college. It was almost as if graduate students had taken over a dorm—less evidence of binge drinking and more evidence of study, more meaningful conversation.

The people seemed to have it together better than I did. I was gonna have to step up my game if I wanted to fit in.

I realized with a start that some part of me did want to fit in at Radix. I’d always been an outsider, a wandering mess in search of a home, but learning of Thayer, of Radix, and of the possibility I belonged here made me want something more than I had in a very long time. Maybe ever.

I wanted to belong at Radix because I suspected I already did. The moment I stepped foot inside the ancient gates of Radix an invisible rope wound around my heart and pulled me toward it. With each bit of information about the school, each glimpse into its history, each encounter with a student the rope drew me closer and closer to becoming a student at The Root. To becoming a Thayerian citizen. My heart fluttered nervously at the life-altering realization. But no panic attack approached.

I wasn’t sure I could leave my mother. What would I tell her? And, committing to more school when I hadn’t yet graduated didn’t hold great appeal,but the mere thought of being a student at Radix was intoxicating. The day before I’d had no idea what to do with my life. Today, enrolling at Radix seemed the most natural decision in the world.

I stumbled upon an open common area with over-sized leather loungers and a kitchenette. Doe Eyes’ willowy legs were curled beneath her in a chair as she read a fashion magazine. She was wearing a long, loose beige sweater, stretchy brown leggings, and tall buckskin boots. She made lovely look effortless. I hated her immediately.

“Hi, I’m Stella,” I said as I approached her and gave a little wave. “This is my first time here.”

“Timbra Redfern,” she said and stood to her full height, which was at least five foot nine. She had an easy smile, but only made brief eye contact as she crossed her arms, tucking her hands between biceps and body. She hunched forward a bit, too. Her shyness surprised me. I hated her a little less.

“So, you’re the one everyone is talking about,” she said, still smiling.

“Talking? About me? Who knows I’m here?” The revelation I was the topic of conversation gave me a jolt of panic. I’d never wanted to be the center of attention. In fact, I had always done my best to stay on the outskirts of it.

“Oh. Just everyone,” she said. “Trust me, the moment you stepped foot on campus, speculation began. I heard that even a couple of bets were placed on the spot. Odds are you won’t last a week. No one can remember the last time a bi-dimensional came through. Ours is a big world, but it’s still small town.”

Perfect. Probably before I had even decided to stay myself, half the campus was betting against me. But, god knew, as the only little girl in my tiny school whose daddy was unaccounted for, I had plenty of experience as the subject of gossip. I had also always been one to rise to a challenge.

“Well, I’m afraid even a week is too long for their bets. There’s no way I can afford this place, even if I wanted to stay. I took out loans for what scholarships didn't cover of undergrad back home.”

“Afford?” Timbra squinted at me. “Tuition and board at Radix…even a monthly stipend are all covered by Thayer. We’re considered investments as citizens, as future guardians. If you’re lucky enough to be accepted, Stella, you don’t have to pay anything.”

“Oh,” was all I could manage.

I considered what life in a college town had to offer me, and couldn’t come up with anything that drew my interest. I thought about moving back into my mother’s house. She would be happy if I lived at home for the rest of my life—just as long as I accompanied her to church every time two or more were gathered. Good lord, the thought of that. I could see our future together just like two Edies from Gray Gardens, one just as batshit crazy as the other, bickering all day about patè and cats.

I had always suspected there was something else out there for me, some greater purpose, and I knew in my bones that Radix and Thayer were it. I might as well dig my heels in and plant some roots. With this hearty dose of resolve warming me from the inside, I knew forward was the only way to go.

“I enjoyed meeting you, Timbra,” I said. Then the words were out of my mouth before I could scoop them back in, “I need to find Admissions. Classes start Monday and I haven’t even bought books.”

Big brown eyes held a knowing twinkle. “Ha. I knew I liked you. Tell them you want the fourth floor. We can be neighbors.”

A
dmissions turned
out to be not much different than in any other institute of higher learning. A drag-ass woman in her fifties somehow found the energy to help me register for classes and find a room. She left me with no doubt as to my ineptitude and inexperience in the world as a whole.
Worlds, plural
, I thought belatedly. I didn’t know if I would ever get used to that. Despite the registrar I left the building with a positive outlook on the days ahead.

It was well past lunchtime and I was famished. After tossing the sophisticated PDA awarded to me upon registration into my bag, I found a campus map and Café Row.

Quite unlike any campus I’d been on, there was no stark cafeteria or food court. Instead, and much to my pleasure, a line of quaint bistros lined the elevated bank of a river that formed the back of Radix campus. A pizzeria, a sandwich shop, and others had placed bistro tables beneath brightly covered umbrellas. The view of the river was breathtaking and peaceful as I approached a counter to order a wood-fired margherita pizza and a glass of cabernet.

“I’ll charge this to your account, Ms…”

“Stonewall. Stella.”

“Ms. Stonewall. Nice to meet you. I’m Nick.” Nick’s worn, white apron sported yellow stains along the circumference of his portly belly—an obvious catch-all for his daily pizza making. He had kind eyes, a bulbous nose, and an easy smile. And he made a damn fine pizza.

I sat in contented silence for several minutes enjoying my simple meal and the borderline-naughty midday glass of wine. I was at peace with my decision to stay. It was right. Predestined even, and I laughed at the thought that not two days before I had no idea what I was going to do with my life.

It was at this moment, as I sat alone with a goofy grin on my face, that Rowan Gresham appeared across the table from me.

“Isn’t it amazing the effect on one’s perspective that can be made by a glass of wine and a moment’s peace?” he asked.

I rather thought it was amazing the effect a glass of wine and a grumpy old dude could have on my libido, but no way was I telling him that.

Instead, I confidently slid a copper-colored folder emblazoned with the gleaming gold Radix logo across the bistro table.

He glanced at it, threw open the folder. “You did it,” he breathed.

I couldn’t be sure, but I thought that the look that passed over his features was a mixture of astonished pleasure and satisfaction. Then I realized it was pride. He was proud of me. My heart fluttered a little at the thought of pleasing him, but mostly I was pleased with myself for taking all of this new information in stride and moving forward.

My PDA buzzed and a studious-looking female avatar peered up at me from the screen.

A sultry female voice intoned, “Stella, the New Semester Mixer begins in two hours in Sabre Hall’s ballroom.”

The avatar was modeled after me.

“Er, thank you?” I wasn’t sure if she could hear me, but thanked her just in case—I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Dang Southern genteel compulsions…

“It is my pleasure,” she replied.

“It can hear me, then?” I turned to Gresham, who was interrupted before he could comment.

“It is sitting right here, and can hear you. You may call me Pia. I am a personal interactive assistant, and am assigned to you for the remainder of your time here at Radix. I control your schedule, can help with your orientation, and am a means of communication with your teachers and peers. I will also assist with, store, and submit any necessary coursework.”

“Ah, all right,” I said and shrugged before turning to Gresham, “You going to this thing? This mixer?”

“Not really my scene. I have a conflict anyway. But you should go. Meet some of your classmates.”

“I think I will,” I said, and my smile matched Gresham’s.

“Congratulations, and welcome to The Root.” He shocked me by running his arm behind my shoulders for a perfectly appropriate hug. Despite its propriety, the forced proximity to his big body was so new, so very warm that the blush on my cheeks was from more than the wine.

“
W
ell
, okay, Pia,” I said after a moment. I don’t suppose you know my room assignment at Sabre Hall? I have a party to get ready for.”

I rolled my eyes in sarcasm and waved goodbye to Gresham, secretly delighting in my new toy.

“Of course I do. You will reside in Room 412. The mixer dress is smart casual.”

“You’re way cooler than Siri, Pia.”

“I’m funnier, too.”

“Oh yeah,” I asked her. “Know any jokes?”

She replied, deadpan, “Three iPhones walk into a bar...”

O
ne quick turn
of a key gained entrance to my new home. I was delighted to find it came with worn but comfortable antique furnishings. A full-sized turned wood bed was covered with a quilt that had been washed so many times it fell limply into every crevice of the worn mattress. A simple table was an instant catchall for Pia and my badge.

The room smelled old, but in a homey way—of oiled wood and fresh linen, of worn leather and just a hint of lemon cleaning solution. A large dresser and an adequate closet—is any closet ever really big enough?—would provide space for my things, and I found a small buffet held exactly two wine glasses and two sets of dinnerware.

I lay my overnight bag at the foot of a leather chair upon an ancient but radiant wool rug. The dyed crimsons, ochres, and indigoes were still vibrant despite centuries of wear and tear. It was soft but firm beneath my toes, and I closed my eyes and lay my head back against the chair, stretching my neck and melting into my new home.

“Damn. Damn, damn, damn.” This string of curses and muffled clanging alerted me to the existence of another door on the left side of the room. I opened it slowly, and discovered a visibly frustrated Timbra Redfern.

“Oh, it
is
you,” she said. “I was trying to make some room in this bathroom cabinet. My room is just through there.” She pointed to a door on the opposite side of the room.

We stood in a Jack and Jill-style bathroom with doors to our bedrooms at either end. While it was small, it had been recently updated, and had a double vanity and the clean lines of contemporary design. The chrome fixtures were muted and tasteful, but another wool rug provided a shock of color and comfort.

“What was all the “damning” about?” I asked Timbra, who had continued to make space within the cabinet for my things.

“Oh,” she said, and looked up, embarrassed. “I’m all knees and elbows, you know, and can hardly turn around in here without breaking something.”

This mental picture was too much, considering she was so…so…deer-like, and I could just picture a real deer in our bathroom slipping around on hooves, all knees and elbows like Bambi wearing stilettos on ice. I giggled, and when she ran an elbow into the door it erupted into a full-blown belly laugh, at which point she got over being affronted and simply joined in.

And there in our shared bathroom, with the audible sigh that accompanies the end of all belly laughs, we became friends.

Timbra helped me dress for the mixer, having a firm grasp of what the term “smart casual” represented. Between the few things I had packed and her particular talent with hair, makeup, and accessories, I almost approached presentable. In stretchy black jeans, a thinly striped top, black heels and gold jewelry, I felt pretty good about my first foray into Radix society.

This self-confidence lasted until Timbra met me in the hall. She was one of those people who always looked thin and perfectly put together. Being her friend was going to be tough.