Memoirs of a Dragon Hunter Page 12

  “Making dinner.”

  “In Oregon. In this town, specifically. I assume it has something to do with that Falafel demon person.”

  “Not really, although she was sent to assist me in locating a valuable person.”

  Idly, I fished a bit of carrot out of a bowl. “Maybe we can help each other.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at me, and I acknowledged that although I’d told myself that our arrangement was strictly so I would get the lessons I badly needed, I wouldn’t be at all sorry if that demon lady showed up again, necessitating me to enjoy Ian’s attentions.

  The man certainly knew how to kiss. The memory of his mouth on mine, not to mention the strength of his warm body beneath my hands, was enough to make me feel flushed and uncomfortable. I shifted in my chair, my clothes suddenly very constrictive and irritating, and distracted myself with the first thing that came to my mind. “You must have known Helen was dead if you were picking up her sword.”

  He paused stirring the food for the count of seven. “I knew.”

  “How?” I asked, suddenly feeling like a wet, clammy hand gripped my stomach.

  He didn’t answer. Suspicion and fear grew within me. I wanted to both vomit and shake him, demanding he answer my questions. “Whoever killed Helen wasn’t a normal person. A mortal, as you insist on calling us. But you’re not normal. Did you kill my sister?”

  Slowly, he stirred the vegetables, then turned off the heat. “I am a dragon hunter.”

  “And that means what in this instance?” I don’t know why I pursued the conversation as hard as I did—I was dreading every single word.

  “Dragon hunters do not kill other dragon hunters.” He looked up, his eyes flamey around the edges of the irises. “Not unless they are under a compulsion of someone like a demon lord, in which case they would be unable to resist.”

  “That wrath Falafel woman. She was a demon, and she said ‘the master’ sent her to help you. Are you under the compulsion of a demon lord, Ian?”

  He turned away to get a couple of bowls. “I am bound to Anzo, yes.”

  My heart seemed to turn to lead in my chest, and I had an almost overwhelming urge to cry, to scream, to run away and hide in bed with all the blankets pulled over my head. “Did you kill my sister?”

  “If I said I did not, would you believe me?” he asked, suddenly turning to me. His eyes looked different somehow, as if something about them had changed. It took me a few seconds to realize it was the pupils. They had elongated a little, making me think of cat’s eyes.

  Weren’t cats supposed to be sly? Mysterious? Heartless predators?

  I shook my head, then nodded, then shook my head again. “Hell, I don’t know what to believe. You just admitted that you were in the perfect circumstance to kill her, and you’re not denying it, but you don’t seem like the murdering sort of man. And I kissed you. Could I kiss a murderer and not know it? I’d like to think I couldn’t, but if you were a murderer, wouldn’t that mean you were good at deceiving people? In which case, why did you do it, Ian? What had Helen done to you? How could you kill an innocent woman who hadn’t done anything to you?” Tears were rolling down my cheeks, and angrily, I searched my pockets for tissues, but there were none. I snatched up a bit of paper towel and blew my nose without regard to how obnoxious a gesture that was.

  “There’s much to be said about someone who could start off thinking I was innocent, and end up with me slaughtering innocents.” He took a deep breath and set down the bowls of food on the table before me. “I can’t prove a negative, Veronica. I can only tell you that I was not present when your sister was killed.”

  “Of course you weren’t—she died in my arms. I told you that. Only I was there,” I said, blowing my nose a second time, getting up to dispose of the paper towels and wash my hands. Ian couldn’t be a murderer, the sane part of my mind argued. I would know if he was. Somehow, I would know. Surprisingly, the anxious mental beast didn’t have anything to say other than wishing I’d pulled out a fresh bottle of hand sanitizer before I’d left my apartment that morning. I took that as a sign I was right—my anxieties were always the first to suspect the worst in people.

  Or was I just trying to fool myself?

  “I wasn’t present when she was attacked.” Ian raised his hands in a gesture of innocence that I wanted all too much to believe. “You can believe me, or not, but it is the truth that I was not there.”

  I eyed him, a new (and almost as distressing) thought coming to mind. “But you know who did it?”

  He said nothing for a few seconds, then repeated, “I wasn’t there. I didn’t witness the attack.”

  “But you know who did,” I repeated, certainty filling me. Horribly, relief mingled in with the certainty, relief that I hadn’t made out with my sister’s murderer, and also relief that I hadn’t found attractive a man who could kill. At least, kill things that weren’t demons. “Who did it? Your demon lord?”

  “She can’t leave Abaddon,” he said with a shake of his head, and served up a bowl of rice.

  “Falafel?”

  “I doubt she was in the mortal world yesterday.”

  “Then who…Sasha! It was Sasha, wasn’t it? Oh, what am I saying?” I sat down again and rubbed my forehead in a desperate attempt to massage some sense into the chaos within. “Sasha wouldn’t kill anyone. She’s like a living, breathing anime girl, surrounded by animals and sweetness and quirkiness. What am I going to do, Ian?”

  “About what?” he asked, holding up a wineglass.

  I shook my head, then made a face, nodded, and accepted the glass he poured for me. “About my sister being killed by someone. I assume a demon, since who else could punch a hole through a person? About finding the poor woman on the run from a bad boyfriend. About learning how to be a dragon hunter when I’m just a neurotic mess most of the time.”

  “I can’t help you with anything but the last.” He sat down and pushed the rice over to me.

  “I know, I know, you have your own jobs.”

  He made an odd sort of one-shouldered shrug and quirked his lips. “One less now.”

  “Oh?” I gave him a moment to explain, but when he didn’t, I helped myself to some food. “You could tell me about Helen. That might help.”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Whatever you like. How you met her. Whether you were friends. How long you knew her. Who killed her.”

  “I’ve never met her,” he said with an even tone, but I sensed an undernote of emotion, powerful and yet wary. A glance at his eyes confirmed my impression—for a few seconds, they were flamey again. Idly, I wondered how he did that, and if it hurt.

  “You can’t tell me anything about her?” I asked, trying to sort through a welter of confusing thoughts. I was exhausted and knew my thinking wasn’t the best, but I had an almost desperate need to understand what had happened to a sister I barely knew. The fact that Ian hadn’t once denied knowing who killed Helen hadn’t escaped my notice, yet I couldn’t help circling around the question of who he was protecting if not Sasha. But that was silly—she was no more a murderer than I was. And yet, it seemed very much like he was protecting someone…

  “Helen Larson was a dragon hunter. She was well respected. Beyond that…” He chewed on a mouthful of stir-fry and rice. “I’m sorry. I only heard about her from her father.”

  “You knew Adam?” Suspicion nudged my brain again.

  “Yes.” He kept his eyes down, focused on the food before him.

  “Did you know him well? That is, were you friends, or just…you know…working acquaintances?”

  His lips tightened, which had to make it hard to eat. “I knew him well enough. Why all the questions?” He looked up then, his eyes narrowed. “I understand interest in your sister’s life, but why do you care about Adam Larson? What do you know about him?”

  “Other than the fact that he had the patience to deal with my mom, who was crazy at the best of times and drunk the rest, not much. He was a biochem
ist who traveled a lot while he was married to my mom, so we only saw him every few months, and then for just a couple of weeks at a time. Mom said he worked for an international rescue organization, and that’s why he had to travel a lot—to help the needy.” I gave a little laugh. “It makes sense now that if he was out dragoning with demon battles and whatever else you guys do—we do—then I suppose it was more or less the truth.”

  His eyes lit up again, and this time I couldn’t stop my mouth from asking, “Does that hurt when you do that?”

  He blinked a couple of times. “Do what?”

  “Get flamey around the edges of your eyes.” I gestured toward my eyes. “Around the colored part, the irises. It’s like you have a ring of fire around them sometimes; then it fades to nothing. Also, your pupils get a bit…longish.”

  He lifted his eyebrows for a moment like he couldn’t believe I asked the question, then gave a little shake of his head. “I keep forgetting you are new to this. Dragon hunters manifest fire differently from normal dragons. They have control over fire, but because our blood is tainted with that of demons, we can’t use it as they do. It shows itself in our eyes in times of anger or pain, or other strong emotions.”

  “Why are you strong emotion eyeball-firing over mentions of my stepfather?” I asked, wondering if I really wanted to know the answer.

  “If you are done eating, you may want to go up and check on Sasha,” he answered, rising and taking the dishes to the sink. “She can sometimes get a bit enthusiastic with her…mad skills. I’ll be up shortly to help you.”

  “Oh, you are so trying to avoid answering the question. Why, Ian? Are you hiding something from me about my stepdad? You didn’t kill him, too?”

  He gave a harsh bark of laughter. “Just the opposite, actually. No, do not ask any more questions. I’ve answered as many as I’m going to tonight. Go upstairs and wait for the Watch, if you like.”

  I decided he had answered a lot of my questions, and made me dinner to boot, so I wouldn’t press him anymore that night. “But don’t think I’m going to be so accommodating tomorrow morning. I want to know what you know about Hel—” I had opened the door while I was speaking, and came face-to-face with a man who had slicked-back blond hair and a mustache that made me think of seventies porn stars.

  “Gah!” the man yelled, and before I could blink, he pulled out a black sword and charged me.

  In Which I Get Stabbed. Wait, Is That Foreshadowing? Crapballs!

  I SHRIEKED WHEN THE MAN RAN AT ME WITH BOTH hands holding a long sword with a glinting black blade. I also leaped to the side, but not before the sword just caught me, slicing through my shirt and slashing along my rib cage.

  “Ack!” I screamed, and grabbed at myself while at the same time scrambling backward and looking desperately for something to use as a weapon to defend myself. The anxious beast in my head surprised me then—rather than freaking out and demanding I curl up into a fetal ball of misery, it roared to life with a heat that had my cheeks flushed, demanding I attack.

  Without thinking, I grabbed the nearest heavy object (an art glass bowl holding a goldfish), quickly scooped out the fish, and threw the bowl at my attacker’s head. The man attempted to dodge it, but tripped over a gerbil cage, which left his head directly in the path of my missile. It hit him smack on the forehead, sending him tumbling over the back of the couch, a welter of splattered blood and water following.

  “What is going on—” Ian appeared around the corner of the kitchen and stared at me standing in the middle of his living room, panting, with a goldfish flopping around in my cupped hand. “What are you doing with Gene Simmons?”

  “He tried to attack me!” I said, grabbing with my free hand at my side. It came away bloody. “Correction, he did attack me. Oh, goddess, I’m bleeding. I’m going to die, I just know it, and then my sister will haunt me because I didn’t save the abused woman. Can a ghost haunt another ghost, do you know?”

  “Goldfish seldom attack anyone, let alone make them bleed,” Ian said, ignoring my panicked babbling to take the goldfish from me and look around. “Where’s his bowl?”

  “Oh. You mean the blond guy isn’t Gene Simmons? The bowl is on the floor, but I think it broke.”

  Ian hurried to the kitchen, where the sound of running water could be heard. I hesitated a moment, then slowly shuffled my way around the edge of the couch to see if the man was still out.

  He was, the sword having skittered across the wood floor until it bumped into the wall. I resisted the urge to kick the unconscious man, noting that his blood was black.

  “I think Gene is okay, although in the future, I’d appreciate you not throwing the animals’ homes,” Ian called from the kitchen. “We lost the other three fish a week ago in an accident with Ringo, and it took Sasha five days before she’d stop wearing a monk’s cowl in mourning.”

  “You don’t think he’s dead, do you?” I asked, looking down at the blond man.

  “No, but if you had him out of water for much longer, he would have been.”

  “Not the fish. The man.”

  “What man?”

  “He doesn’t seem to be breathing.” I poked the man with the toe of a shoe. “I don’t think he’s a normal person, though. I mean, what sort of normal person attacks other people with swords?”

  “What are you talking about?” Ian reemerged from the kitchen with a glass pitcher, now housing the goldfish Gene Simmons.

  “Him.” I pointed, and Ian came around the couch, stared for the count of six, then sighed.

  “What is she doing behind the couch?”

  “She? Are you blind? That’s a guy.”

  “No, it’s Falafel.” He squatted down next to her and examined the bloody welt on the man’s forehead. “Demons can take whatever form they like, and some change frequently. Evidently Falafel felt like a change.”

  “Is she…he…transgendered, too? Because I didn’t get an answer on the Sasha question, and I don’t want to offend anyone.”

  “It doesn’t really matter.” Ian shrugged and glanced up at me, his eyes narrowing on my side. “What happened to you?”

  “Your demon friend there sliced me open with a sword.” I pulled up my shirt to examine my side. “Holy Clorox, it’s bleeding like crazy! I need drugs. And antibiotics. Should I go to a doctor? I should, shouldn’t I? I hate doctors. There are so many sick people there, and germs everywhere. What if I fainted? Oh, man, I might faint. Things are getting woozy. I feel light-headed.”

  I weaved a little, my panicked animal racing around my head screaming we were about to keel over. Ian rose to look at my side, made a tching noise, and without so much as a “Do you mind?” peeled my shirt off and bent down to look at my torso.

  “Hey!” I covered my breasts even though they were tucked away inside my bra. “Were you raised by wolves? You ask before you take off someone’s shirt! Ack! Don’t touch it! I’ve been stabbed—it’ll hurt if you touch it! Plus you’ll get my blood on your hands.”

  “My apologies for the shirt removal, but I wanted to see if you really were about to faint. This doesn’t look like it’s more than a superficial scratch, but I have some antibiotic cream in the bathroom you can use if you’d like to clean it up. Also, I was a medic in the First World War, so if you are worried about a scar, I can get a needle and some thread and stitch it up.” He straightened up and turned away just as if that was that, and nothing to freak out over.

  “Needle…” I swallowed hard, a big lump in my throat warning me that all was not well in my stomach. Just the thought of Ian sewing me up had bile rising dangerously high. “Stitch it up…ungh…”

  Blackness swamped me when I fell forward, my panic level through the roof. I remained in the abyss of nothingness for a bit before slowly coming to again, sound being the first thing that I noticed.

  “What is she doing here again?” The voice that asked was male, and sounded decidedly peeved.

  I opened my eyes, and found myself lying on the couch
, my shirt still off, but several strands of gauze wrapped around my rib cage. Obviously Ian had patched me up after I’d swooned.

  Standing in the middle of the room, the blond Falafel stood in her male porn star form, her face furious.

  Ian looked tired. “What do you think she’s doing here? I told you that she was my woman. And now you’ve harmed her, and I won’t be able to leave her on her own.”

  “Faugh,” Falafel snorted. “There’s no reason to baby mortals. If she dies, she dies. That’s one less of them to get in our way.”

  “You are seriously obnoxious, and I’m not just talking about your seventies porn mustache,” I said, getting to my feet. I wobbled once, but managed to straighten up and give Falafel a mean look despite the fact that I was shirtless and wounded.

  I noticed that Ian hadn’t bothered to bandage her wound. That made me smile at him where he stood at the end of the couch. He looked startled for a moment.

  “Be quiet. Speak when you are spoken to,” the demon snapped. “In fact, I have had enough of you. Begone!”

  I straightened my shoulders, marveling momentarily that once again the anxious beast in my head demanded I fight. “Look, you may think you’re a badass carrying around a sword with which to run innocent people through, but let me tell you a thing or two. For one, you don’t have the right to tell me to leave someone else’s apartment. And for another, I have my own sw—mmrph.”

  Ian grabbed me before I could finish speaking, pulling me into a sudden and intense embrace. “Don’t speak, hot lips. You don’t have to tell the demon anything.”

  I pushed back and looked up at his face, about to tell him that pretend girlfriend or not, he did not have the right to call me by that atrocious endearment or to grab me like that, but I saw the warning in his eyes before I spoke. The edges of his irises glittered with green fire, and his pupils were long and narrow. He was in full dragon mode, which meant he was either afraid or angry.

  “Uh…okay,” I said, making a note to have a chat with him later about the form his warnings took.