A Shade of Dragon (5 page)

I
wiggled
from within my dirtied clothing—dry and unwrinkled, but dusted in sand—and climbed into my shower for a quick, hot one. I needed to feel clean. Although they didn’t hurt, I could see the bruises developing all over my body as I undressed. They splotched my ankle, both knees, my chest, the backs of my arms, and the backside of my hips. I remembered, as I examined these wounds, that these had been the recipients of Theon’s massage.

I frowned and stepped into the shower, depositing a dollop of green apple shampoo into my palm and rubbing it into my salty, sandy, tangled hair. How had Theon known where to touch me? The marks had been covered by clothes. At the same time, I was reveling in the steam as it buffeted my body, and couldn’t be terribly bothered to launch a full-scale investigation. He’d saved my life. He’d been weird. I scrubbed my bar of Dove soap against my loofah and began scrubbing my arms and chest. The ordeal with Theon was over now, and it didn’t matter; I was lucky to have experienced it.

Just then, the loofah skated over my chest and snagged on the crystal pendant.

Yelping, I unchained the necklace and flung it onto the sink.

I’d totally forgotten about that thing… and I wondered if my actions revealed a deep-seated belief in Theon’s wild claim that the necklace could show him to me, and me to him, in our times of need.

I breathed out, long and low.

No way.

It was just an automatic reaction, created by sleepiness and heightened emotions from the fight a few minutes ago. Average, beach house-dwelling Americans—or even whatever Theon was—did not have access to technology with zero interface. That would equate telepathy! It just didn’t make sense. As gorgeous and kind as Theon was, “crazy” definitely ranked in the top ten adjective list, too.

I climbed out of the shower and toweled off, eyeballing the pendant on the sink warily but refusing to cover it and admit to myself that Theon might have been able to see me through the chunk of glass. I wiped the mirror down with my towel. My face looked decent—except small scratches on the cusp of my jaw. You had to struggle to see them.
All in all… you were lucky, girl.

I collected my favorite set of nightclothes, picked up a pair of matching thermals etched in warm fall colors, and snatched up the necklace from the ledge of the sink. I looped it around my neck once more. Even if I didn’t believe in it, it was still a funky necklace from a gorgeous hero. Besides, there was something oddly empowering about wearing the jewelry of another man after I’d just been kind of dumped by a lesser one. Or stood up? I didn’t know what Andrew and I were, but I could tell you what I was: thankful that the sea had swallowed up Andrew and Michelle’s connection to me, and my connection to the outside world.

I settled onto the window box and peered out; the moon was unveiled and shining down, turning the sands white, the waters black, and the houses an asphalt gray. I wondered if Theon was home. Had he gone to sleep? Or was he awake? Might he have even been standing at his own window, peering toward mine?

I pulled the pendant off and stared at it hard. I guessed I was giving Theon the chance to be honest and sane. I tilted the stone back and forth in the moonlight. It was sharp. Almost too sharp for a retailer to sell it. It could just as easily have been a weapon.

“Theon?” I whispered. It wasn’t a joke. I really, really wanted to give him a chance.

Silver glinted off the shard’s surface again… before it returned to being a normal rock. I sighed.

I frowned at the necklace, leaning deeper toward it. Was there an orange sparkle in the reflection… right behind me?

Turning, I saw nothing. Nothing but floral wallpaper.

The orange flutter was still there. A shadow crossed in front of it and I gasped, dropping the pendant. As it fell, it slit into my thumb and pulled with it a bead of blood. “Dammit,” I hissed, sticking my thumb into my mouth and leaning down to scoop up the pendant.

So crazy… The orange flicker was still there, clearer now, beneath a smear of my blood.

Suddenly, the shadow crossed the surface of the pendant again and turned. It was Theon. I could see him illuminated by the orange sparkle: a fire? Was I seeing into that cave again?

Theon turned his head as if somehow aware of my watchful eyes, then advanced—seemingly toward the pendant—and stared into its surface. His lips moved, but I couldn’t hear the words. Still, it looked like he was saying, “Nell? Nell?”

Startled, I shoved the pendant under a cushion and stood up from the window box as if it was a spider I’d just killed there. Shaking my head and breathing unevenly, I advanced toward the bed and climbed in. I hiked the blankets up to my chin. It had to have been my imagination.

T
he next morning
was the day before Christmas Eve. As my eyelids drifted open, my very first thought was of the single present I still had left to get: Dad’s. I was terrible at shopping for him. I tended to gravitate toward practical items: state-of-the-art watches, weather-insulated socks, and gadgets designed to reduce clutter. Dad, on the other hand, selected gifts based on sentimentality and indulgence: replicas of the things I’d cherished in childhood, extravagant plots for our next holiday vacation, and cold hard cash.

I was going to have to spend the day shopping. Augh. That meant I would have to talk to Dad in order to borrow the Mercedes. Awkward.

I pulled a pair of jeans over my thermal underwear and dressed in a slinky wool poncho the color of champagne. I admired the ensemble in the vanity mirror, then realized that the perfect jewelry to give this an added flair was Theon’s pendant. I dug it out from under the cushion, examined it just enough to discern that it was reflecting my own face back at me, and then strung it around my neck. I pulled on a pair of black boots and braided my hair sloppily. I didn’t bother with makeup, save a dab of concealer on the mark at my jaw and a dab of balm for my lips. With that, I snatched my wallet and headed downstairs.

Sage was playing a zombie shooter game on his console, sprawled out in the living room like a Roman king. In the kitchen, Dad busily cooked omelets at the stove, and Zada was out on the porch, sitting in the lotus position on some patio furniture. “Hey, Dad,” I greeted, never looking at him. “What’s going on?”

“Making breakfast for everybody, and then I’ve got a real quick video conference with my top-tier resort managers, and then I should be free for the rest of the day. Why, what do you want to do? Hey, what would you like on your omelet? Cheddar cheese, sun-dried tomatoes, and kale—am I right or am I right?”

I rolled my eyes. Yes, that was pretty much my exact favorite set of ingredients for an omelet, other than eggs, naturally. “And mushrooms, if you have any,” I added, just to be difficult. I guessed Dad could be right about Mom and I; we could both be contrary bitches from time to time. “I need to run to the store and pick up some last-minute things. Is it okay if I take the car?”

“Of course it’s okay,” Dad replied, but I could hear a note of melancholy in his voice. He was the best actor I’d ever seen when it came to hiding his own disappointments. “But you’re going to miss Morning-Before-the-Morning-Before-Christmas Omelets.”

“I’ll make peace with that,” I said, my tone cool. “You could come with me, if you want.” I added that out of guilt.

Dad sighed. “No, no, I’ve got that meeting thing. It’s fine.”

“Okayyy… How’s Zada doing?”

“Usually pretty good, after a meditation this long.” Dad turned over his shoulder to wink at me. “If you ask me, it’s basically drugs for people who don’t drink caffeine anymore.” He grinned and turned back to his pan of eggs. “I’ll see you when you get back, dumpling. The keys are on the ring beside the garage door. Can’t miss them.”

T
he mall
at Beggar’s Hole was obviously not named Beggar’s Hole Mall. We called it the Emporium at Shoreside.

Beggar’s Hole, contrary to the name, was a small, but well-off town centered around a few classy boutiques and eateries before spreading into a smattering of beach houses and then becoming nothing but woods and highway again.

It was named Beggar’s Hole for the natural phenomenon which occurred at Beggar’s Lake, found deep inside Beggar’s Woods. The endless whirlpool was the real beggar’s hole. It was a marvel of nature. It would take and take whatever you gave it. There was a video on YouTube of a guy putting his sofa onto a boat and sending it into the hole, which sucked both items into its depths. No one knew how deep into the Earth it traveled; people like Zada probably considered the whirlpool to be some kind of spiritual landmark. Daredevils had been known to drown there, bodies never found.

The Emporium at Shoreside struggled with great success to divorce itself from the word “beggar.” From the fountain in the plaza, which illuminated itself at night, to the price tags on the designer lingerie, nothing about Shoreside spoke of beggars, or even of charity, for that matter. At this time of year, unsmiling mannequins stared out of storefront windows, simultaneously wreathed in snow made of cotton and Navajo-printed cashmere. During the night, a fine crust of real snow had fallen, but the vendors had already salted the cobblestone walk for the droves of last-minute shoppers.

I roamed Shoreside for two hours before finally confessing to myself that I was a Christmas failure of Seussian proportion. I’d fondled the reindeer ladles. I’d gotten a price check on a set of Stylus pens, which could’ve been further monogrammed with his initials. I wasn’t totally sucking at this. I’d found a reasonably priced ergonomic desk chair. Augh!

I sat down at the fountain and tears stung my eyes. I never cried, and never, ever in public. Why was I even crying? I was trying hard. I was doing a good job… or a decent job, anyway.

I brushed my hand over my eyes, swiping the tears away, then absently rubbed them onto my sweater. I decided I’d better get back to work.

I’d just finished purchasing the set of Stylus pens—which I would then take to be monogrammed with his initials, so the gift didn’t seem quite so impersonal—and stepped back onto the cobblestone walkway when I recognized Theon lurking by the fountain.

“Theon,” I cried, rushing over with a big, stupid smile. Why couldn’t people control their emotions when it counted the most? I patted down the thick braid looped around my shoulder. I hadn’t combed it quite as carefully as I normally did, and you could tell. “Hey.”

Theon was wearing an azure blue silk shirt with woolen pants of dirty gray, and a thick, heavy matching coat. I smiled, bemused, as I noted the vest he was wearing with that overcoat: it was made of a light chestnut fur. The man owned a vest. Of fur.

“Hey,” I repeated breathlessly as I closed the space between us. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

Theon smiled down at me warmly. “And yet here I am,” he said. His voice was so rich and sensual, its sound could overtake a woman, like a warm bite of chocolate.

I shook my head dizzily before I dared even attempt to find my tongue. “What are you doing at Shoreside? On December twenty-third, of all days?”

“Learning,” he replied. I tilted my head. Why did he have to be so strange? “Finding you. And what of you? What do these shops hold for you?” He stretched out one graceful hand and my mouth went loose, breathless in anticipation of his fingers threading through my hair, pulling me closer, but he reached past my hair and plucked the plastic strap of the shopping bag from the Blackstone Collection from off my shoulder. “Hm.” He fished the pack from within its tissue nest. “A utensil of some sort, is it?”

“Uh, Stylus pens,” I informed him. “For his phone. He does a lot of business on his phone.”

“In Maine, an item for one’s business is considered a gift? In my land, gifts must be meaningful to the relationship.”

My cheeks warmed. “I know it’s a crappy gift.” He cocked his head to the side. “Poor in quality. But it’s for my dad… and he’s always been really hard to shop for.”

Theon nodded. “I’ve found, in my quests, that trust in one’s own path is paramount.”

What?

I cleared my throat. “What does that mean in the context of Christmas shopping, Theon?”

Theon smiled. “It means let’s walk. The answer will come to us.” He took my hand in his and drew me away from the fountain.

“
Y
ou know
, your people are truly craftsmen of the marketplace,” Theon noted as we strolled past artisan coffee mug studios and trendy vinyl retailers. “No detail has been spared in the effort to draw passersby.”

“What is it like in your country, then?” I was beginning to seriously doubt that Theon was from Canada after all.

“We have shops, and even sales, but the outside world is left as it is and not repurposed for advertising.”
He’s awfully dark-haired to be from Norway
. “Even your acts of beauty, such as the fountain in the center of the marketplace, exist only to draw people to the shops, and not for their own sake.”

I glanced at him and smiled with a hint of sorrow. Could it be that a fully-grown man was less cynical than me? “Not everything we have is like that. You’ll see. Let’s keep walking.”

“Outside of this marketplace? The…” He cast about for one of the many signs. “Emporium at Shoreside?”

I rolled my eyes. “Yes, outside of Shoreside. Wasn’t it you who said to trust our path in order to find the right gift?”

“I did say that.”

“So let’s keep walking. There’s something down here I want to show you, anyway.”

Departing from the Emporium at Shoreside—feeling strangely giddy and even confident—we strolled along the perpendicular Shoreside Avenue, which housed an old theater, a dance studio, a consignment shop, a garage for bicycle repair, and a shallow pond which froze solid every winter and became the community ice-skating rink.

“So,” I continued on my secret game of Twenty Questions to Determine Where Theon Was From, “does it snow, where you’re from? Do you like the snow?”

Theon’s countenance darkened inexplicably, as if I’d asked him about his opinion of funerals. “It has been known to chill there, on occasion. But it is most often quite verdant and sunny.”

Hmph. Not Norway, then
.
Or Switzerland or the rest of northern Europe. I mean, even Germany and France are out, if it doesn’t often snow there. Is he Portuguese? Italian? Spanish? Where is his accent from?

“Are there a lot of beaches, or—”

“Nell.” Theon turned. His tone wasn’t heated, but it was firm. “I do not wish to discuss my country until I am absolutely sure that you’re ready.”

That I’m… ready?

“Uh, okay,” I said. We began our leisurely stroll again. “Americans aren’t quite as hateful toward foreigners as we’re maybe portrayed in the general media, you know. I’m sure I could handle… Oh my God! They’re re-releasing
Ratatouille
!” I cheered, startling Theon. It was right in front of my face. Theon had been right. If we just trusted our path, the perfect gift would show itself to us.

I bolted past Theon and clamored at the poster of the animated mouse, scanning for its show times.

“I’m sorry,” Theon called to me. I turned, breathless, and peered up into his frown. “What is so exciting about the rodent?”

“It was this movie that my dad took me to see right after he and my mom got divorced,” I explained, marching toward the box office to collect my tickets. “It was really important to me, you know? I was very stressed out over the whole thing, and this movie let me be a kid again for an hour and a half. It helped—a little—to heal the messed-up way I was starting to feel toward my dad, too. Could I have two tickets for
Ratatouille,
December twenty-sixth, preferably a matinee?” This I directed toward the young boy in the ticket booth.

“That’ll be thirteen dollars,” he squeaked.

I paid, collected my tickets, and turned to Theon. “It’s the perfect gift,” I assured him. Overwhelmed with gratitude, I flung myself into his arms and held tight for a moment. How was it possible that I felt his heart throbbing against mine, even through both of our sweaters and coats? I closed my eyes and cherished the moment, then
pulled away and glanced up at him. “You said you are from Iphras. What is that, exactly?”

Theon smiled down at me. His palm came to the side of my face and stroked my cheek. His amber eyes flared an impossible gold, and I was hard-pressed to notice whether or not such a shade existed in nature. “Iphras is a major river, much like your Nile,” he explained, drawing his hand away and wrapping it around mine once again.

We resumed our walk.
Your Nile?
He said that as if the Nile, which was native to Egypt, was more mine than his, even though I was clearly not of African descent. How could the Nile be mine, but not his?

And if the Iphras was the equivalent of the Nile… why had I never even heard of it before?