Dragon Soul
Page 10
He lifted his eye patch to give me a long, pointed look, then lowered it again, and picked up his book. “The patrons at the Hotel Ocelot do not sleep in fear.”
Which was an odd sort of thing to say, when you think about it. And I did, for about as long as it took me to escort Mrs. P outside, and across the street, where we found a small ethnic grocery store, a brightly lit electronics store that blared Middle-Eastern music… and a tea shop.
“I’ll be damned,” I said, staring at the front of the small shop with faded curtains shading the lower half of the windows, no doubt to screen the customers sitting there.
“I hope not. Not in those shoes, anyway,” Mrs. P said with another derisive glance at my feet.
“Ponyhof?” I asked, reading the sign that said Das Leben ist kein Ponyhof. “That’s something to do with a pony, isn’t it?
“It means ‘life isn’t a place for riding ponies.’ You will take your shoes off to enter.”
“Really, what is your obsession with my choice of footwear—oh.” I read the small sign that lurked at knee level, and stated in three different languages that shoes were to be deposited at the entrance.
We entered, and immediately it felt as if I’d been swept back a hundred years. The room was lit by small shaded lamps perched in the center of tiny round tables, each of which was covered by a colorful paisley shawl. The lamps dripped with jet beads, while the room was dotted with large potted plants. The whole ambiance of the place reeked late Victorian/early Edwardian, and was oddly comforting.
That is, until I bent down to pluck off one of my shoes (and admittedly looked forward to it since even the most comfortable pair of heels has limits) when I caught sight of the two men sitting at the table half screened by a large potted palm.
One of them was a stranger, but the second was the man from the plane—the one who had tried to knife Mrs. P.
Except the handsome Rowan had said that it wasn’t a knife.
“My favorite table,” Mrs. P said, bustling forward barefoot and plopping herself down in a chair at a table that was already occupied by a man and woman, both of whom watched her in surprise.
I stopped frowning at the man from the plane, removed my shoes, and hurried after my charge.
“Er… hello,” the woman said to Mrs. P. She had a short black bob, the sort that flappers used to have in the 1920s, while her companion had dreadlocks pulled back into a ponytail, latte-colored skin, and the most brilliant gray eyes I’d ever seen.
“I’m so sorry for disturbing you,” I said hurriedly, tapping Mrs. P on the arm while simultaneously trying to pull back her chair.
She clung to the table with a ferocity that I hadn’t expected, but the presence of the man who had tried to attack her made me very nervous, and I decided that the best thing was for us to skedaddle. “My… companion… is a bit enthusiastic. We’ll take ourselves away.”
“No. This is my favorite table. It has the best view of the spirits,” Mrs. P insisted, and gave a loud squawk when I tried to pull her chair back from the table.
“These nice people were already here,” I said in a reasonable tone that faded away to nothing when I realized that everyone in the tearoom—which was about three-quarters full—was watching us with horrified expressions.
“I don’t want to go back to the hotel!” Mrs. P said indignantly.
I slid a glance toward the plane man. He was tapping his fingers on the table and glaring at me.
“I really think we should be leaving,” I said, trying to gently heft Mrs. P from her chair without looking like an abusive caretaker who ran roughshod over her client’s wishes.
“The séance hasn’t started. We can’t leave until it is completed,” Mrs. P insisted, clutching the edge of the table. “Why aren’t you listening to me, gel?”
“I am listening to you, but I don’t think you’re safe here.”
“Nonsense. You there, tell Sophea that we can’t leave until the séance is over.”
The bobbed-hair woman smiled at Mrs. P. “Absolutely you must stay for the entertainment. We heard it wasn’t to be missed, so you really shouldn’t leave on our account… oh.” The last word was spoken when the woman had glanced at me. Her eyes rounded for a few seconds before she slid her companion an odd look.
He too was staring at me, his eyes at first narrowed and calculating, but then suddenly, the shadow that I hadn’t realized was there had cleared, and he smiled, revealing dimples on either cheek. He stood and pulled out a chair for me. “Of course you and your protector must remain, madam…?”
“This is Mrs. Papadopolous,” I answered.
“That’s not my name,” Mrs. P said, shaking her head and looking very pleased with herself.
“I’m Sophea Long, and that’s really sweet of you to offer to let us sit with you, but—”
“Sit down, gel. They can’t start the séance until you do.”
I cast a worried glance over to the man from the plane, but wearily gave in and allowed myself to sink into the chair.
“Gabriel Tauhou,” the man said, gesturing toward the woman. He had an Australian accent that was oddly lyrical. “This is my mate, May. I must admit, we are surprised to see you. We hadn’t heard that any of your kind survived untainted.”
“Survived?” I asked, my voice rising an octave. “Untainted? Untainted by what?”
“Shush,” Mrs. P said, whapping me lightly on the arm as one of the tea servers, who was dressed in what I thought of as Renaissance Faire gypsy, took the center of the room, and began speaking in German.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, leaning across the table toward the man named Gabriel. “But what did you mean that you were surprised that I survived?”
“The curse,” he said, nodding just as if that meant something. “I can think of only two red dragons who escaped the fate Abaddon held for them, and since then, both have been killed. But no mates survived. In fact, I was not aware that Jian had claimed a mate.”
I stared at him for a minute, the jet lag making my brain react more slowly than normal, but at last his words filtered through my mental fog, and I sat back, my stomach tight with worry and unnamed fear. Was everyone around me mad? First Mrs. P, and now this man? And just how did he know about Jian?
Which was an odd sort of thing to say, when you think about it. And I did, for about as long as it took me to escort Mrs. P outside, and across the street, where we found a small ethnic grocery store, a brightly lit electronics store that blared Middle-Eastern music… and a tea shop.
“I’ll be damned,” I said, staring at the front of the small shop with faded curtains shading the lower half of the windows, no doubt to screen the customers sitting there.
“I hope not. Not in those shoes, anyway,” Mrs. P said with another derisive glance at my feet.
“Ponyhof?” I asked, reading the sign that said Das Leben ist kein Ponyhof. “That’s something to do with a pony, isn’t it?
“It means ‘life isn’t a place for riding ponies.’ You will take your shoes off to enter.”
“Really, what is your obsession with my choice of footwear—oh.” I read the small sign that lurked at knee level, and stated in three different languages that shoes were to be deposited at the entrance.
We entered, and immediately it felt as if I’d been swept back a hundred years. The room was lit by small shaded lamps perched in the center of tiny round tables, each of which was covered by a colorful paisley shawl. The lamps dripped with jet beads, while the room was dotted with large potted plants. The whole ambiance of the place reeked late Victorian/early Edwardian, and was oddly comforting.
That is, until I bent down to pluck off one of my shoes (and admittedly looked forward to it since even the most comfortable pair of heels has limits) when I caught sight of the two men sitting at the table half screened by a large potted palm.
One of them was a stranger, but the second was the man from the plane—the one who had tried to knife Mrs. P.
Except the handsome Rowan had said that it wasn’t a knife.
“My favorite table,” Mrs. P said, bustling forward barefoot and plopping herself down in a chair at a table that was already occupied by a man and woman, both of whom watched her in surprise.
I stopped frowning at the man from the plane, removed my shoes, and hurried after my charge.
“Er… hello,” the woman said to Mrs. P. She had a short black bob, the sort that flappers used to have in the 1920s, while her companion had dreadlocks pulled back into a ponytail, latte-colored skin, and the most brilliant gray eyes I’d ever seen.
“I’m so sorry for disturbing you,” I said hurriedly, tapping Mrs. P on the arm while simultaneously trying to pull back her chair.
She clung to the table with a ferocity that I hadn’t expected, but the presence of the man who had tried to attack her made me very nervous, and I decided that the best thing was for us to skedaddle. “My… companion… is a bit enthusiastic. We’ll take ourselves away.”
“No. This is my favorite table. It has the best view of the spirits,” Mrs. P insisted, and gave a loud squawk when I tried to pull her chair back from the table.
“These nice people were already here,” I said in a reasonable tone that faded away to nothing when I realized that everyone in the tearoom—which was about three-quarters full—was watching us with horrified expressions.
“I don’t want to go back to the hotel!” Mrs. P said indignantly.
I slid a glance toward the plane man. He was tapping his fingers on the table and glaring at me.
“I really think we should be leaving,” I said, trying to gently heft Mrs. P from her chair without looking like an abusive caretaker who ran roughshod over her client’s wishes.
“The séance hasn’t started. We can’t leave until it is completed,” Mrs. P insisted, clutching the edge of the table. “Why aren’t you listening to me, gel?”
“I am listening to you, but I don’t think you’re safe here.”
“Nonsense. You there, tell Sophea that we can’t leave until the séance is over.”
The bobbed-hair woman smiled at Mrs. P. “Absolutely you must stay for the entertainment. We heard it wasn’t to be missed, so you really shouldn’t leave on our account… oh.” The last word was spoken when the woman had glanced at me. Her eyes rounded for a few seconds before she slid her companion an odd look.
He too was staring at me, his eyes at first narrowed and calculating, but then suddenly, the shadow that I hadn’t realized was there had cleared, and he smiled, revealing dimples on either cheek. He stood and pulled out a chair for me. “Of course you and your protector must remain, madam…?”
“This is Mrs. Papadopolous,” I answered.
“That’s not my name,” Mrs. P said, shaking her head and looking very pleased with herself.
“I’m Sophea Long, and that’s really sweet of you to offer to let us sit with you, but—”
“Sit down, gel. They can’t start the séance until you do.”
I cast a worried glance over to the man from the plane, but wearily gave in and allowed myself to sink into the chair.
“Gabriel Tauhou,” the man said, gesturing toward the woman. He had an Australian accent that was oddly lyrical. “This is my mate, May. I must admit, we are surprised to see you. We hadn’t heard that any of your kind survived untainted.”
“Survived?” I asked, my voice rising an octave. “Untainted? Untainted by what?”
“Shush,” Mrs. P said, whapping me lightly on the arm as one of the tea servers, who was dressed in what I thought of as Renaissance Faire gypsy, took the center of the room, and began speaking in German.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, leaning across the table toward the man named Gabriel. “But what did you mean that you were surprised that I survived?”
“The curse,” he said, nodding just as if that meant something. “I can think of only two red dragons who escaped the fate Abaddon held for them, and since then, both have been killed. But no mates survived. In fact, I was not aware that Jian had claimed a mate.”
I stared at him for a minute, the jet lag making my brain react more slowly than normal, but at last his words filtered through my mental fog, and I sat back, my stomach tight with worry and unnamed fear. Was everyone around me mad? First Mrs. P, and now this man? And just how did he know about Jian?
