A Boy and His Dragon (9 page)

Kate hadn’t heard back from the sex shop about the job and had spent her day experimenting with their small supply of food, so at least Arthur came home to a warm dinner of grilled cheese with green onion, which was… different, if not good, and Kate was happy about the tiny oranges he’d brought home.

Arthur went to bed early, had weird, intense dreams that didn’t leave him in the mood for conversation, and read most of one of Bertie’s books before going to work at Uncle Wu’s. He was glad to get a Friday shift because it was busier and the tips were better, but it was like everyone who ordered lived up a steep hill, and now he was exhausted and sore.

The wet streets didn’t help, either. Kate had been worried he’d get sick and had thrown another jacket at him this morning—which was already soaked. It started pouring down rain again on his way to Bertie’s house, and by the time he got in the door, his outer jacket was a soaked, heavy mess.

It was still early and the house was dark, as if either no one was up or no one was home. Arthur thought Bertie must have left, R. Cooper

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because he was surrounded by the dull silence he was starting to associate with Bertie’s absence.

He put his bag down and went to the bathroom to leave his soaked outer jacket in the sink. The house was warm, Bertie was gone, and it would be okay if he left some of his clothes in there to dry for a while. He might even poke around and find a dryer. He could do some of Bertie’s laundry, if it was around, to make up for using the appliances without Bertie’s permission.

He was almost glad Bertie wasn’t there, because he would have had something to say about Arthur wandering around shirtless in his house, using a hand towel to dry his hair.

On the other hand, Arthur was hot all over just at the idea of how Bertie would look at him if he saw him right now. It was probably better that Arthur leave at least one shirt on.

There was still no sign of any dragons, flirtatious or otherwise, so Arthur poked around for a few minutes, sticking his head into the study to take a look. It was surprisingly well organized. It also had another deep couch, lower to the floor than the other one, and a TV, which made Arthur wonder if watching television was what Bertie did when he was supposed to be working.

He didn’t go upstairs. He didn’t even let himself think about it.

He wouldn’t have had a chance anyway. The sound of whistling startled him, and when he found the source in the kitchen—a teapot—he also found a note telling him to have a cup of tea with plenty of sugar, and a scone as well.

The scones were on a silver plate with a doily, little buttery biscuits not at all like the dry, triangular wedges he usually saw in coffee shops.

He looked over his shoulder before he took the water off the stove and then opened cabinets until he found a mug. He rubbed at his neck, though he was reasonably certain you weren’t supposed to be able to tell if someone was spying on you via magic. He didn’t even know if Bertie could do that, but maybe anyone could use a crystal ball or a pool of water if they had enough training.

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It could have been the house itself. Bertie kept treasure in here; maybe there were wards around the house itself, letting him know when someone entered it. Of course, that didn’t explain how he knew to time the boiling water to Arthur’s arrival, but he hadn’t gotten everything right at least. Arthur would have preferred coffee over tea—not that he was going to object.

He had his choice of tea and picked the darkest one he could find before heading out to the table in the main room to set up his ancient laptop. Only then did he look over at the stacks of books and sigh.

Maybe another scone would revive him, but at the moment all he could think of—apart from the tantalizing idea that Bertie was keeping an eye on him, watching him even now, making sure he was fed and cared for—was that he wasn’t ready to lug any books around today.

He spotted the stack of notes he’d discovered so far and looked around once more. There was still no hint of Bertie, and his note didn’t say anything about when he’d return.

The notes were by the couch. The couch that looked incredibly warm and soft and inviting. Arthur fell into it with a long moan.

He’d been working for Bertie less than a week and already he was going to miss it when he was gone and the work was over. The tea was hot enough to make him prickle with sweat and the couch
was
velvet, or something close enough to it that he almost put his cheek on it.

He was seriously tired if he was thinking about rubbing his face all over his employer’s couch. His very
expensive
couch. He slurped down his tea quickly so he wouldn’t spill it and so he’d wake up a little, and then he put it on the table and reached for his laptop and all those notes.

If he typed them all up, he might be able to put them in some kind of order, maybe even figure out what exactly Bertie had to say about lost red dragons and King Arthur. Of course, that was assuming there was any order to be found.

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A lot of professors were touchy about their unpublished work, but he should ask if he could look over the outline or whatever was written so far. It might give him a better idea of what to look for.

In fact, as he typed up scribbled notes written on napkins and legal pads and one business card for that same herbalist, he was definitely going to need more to go on. For a history book, many of the notes seemed to be about romance. A few were from hero cycles. Arthur had never seen “Beowulf” in the light that Bertie must have. It was clear he had contempt for the way the story played out, and yet there were hints that he was using it as an example of another trend in early cultures; the word “vilifying” had been used more than once.

Arthur made a note to reread the text. Then he added a note to look into the idea that Beings and humans had once lived together in peace; the human stories about the subsequent shift in behavior in dragons that had necessitated the Beings being heroically murdered might have some dark motivation. There
were
other stories of mythical creatures being helpful, even dragons or serpents, if you went back early enough. He never noticed it before, but Bertie was right: at some point that had changed.

He thought about it as he typed and squinted at a misspelling or two and had another hot, hot cup of tea, frowning at the screen until his vision went blurry and the world was spinning.

He saw himself in a harsh realm with a sword in his hand, desperate to prove he was master of his fate, of the world, and woke up with a cry of confusion.

The room around him was dark. Really dark. Much too dark for it to still be morning or even afternoon.

For a moment he contemplated whether or not Bertie had ever come home, because the lights weren’t on, and then he became aware of the velvet crushed under his cheek and the thick comforter that had been thrown over his shoulders.

His laptop had been taken out of his lap and put onto the cushion next to him. Sleepily, he wondered if his tea had been drugged, but then he felt the heaviness in his arms and legs that A Boy and His Dragon

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meant he was still exhausted from the night before. His stomach was rumbling and his skin felt like it was on fire.

Sitting up and shooting a look around didn’t make him feel any more awake. If anything, it made the spinning behind his eyes worse.

He frowned, first at that, and then at the flash drive plugged into his laptop. He searched the room for any hint that he wasn’t alone, but there was nothing.

He angled his head to look up the stairs. He couldn’t hear anything, but somehow he didn’t think he was the only one in the house anymore. Maybe it was the way the temperature had risen despite it being darker. Not that he knew what time it was, but he doubted Bertie would come home just to tuck him in and then leave again.

He yanked his laptop over and opened it, hoping Bertie hadn’t gone through all the files on it. There was no sign that he had, but there were two files on the drive. The first was labeled, “Dearest Arthur.” Arthur clicked it.

This was a wonderful idea
, it read.
I can read my own notes
now. You’re a treasure, Arthur, and you were right. Here is my
outline for you to read. Be aware it’s preliminary, and I will change
my mind about it a thousand times. I am sure you have read
Discovering Arthur
but if you haven’t, I recommend it. It’s a
compilation of various Arthurian and what might be Arthurian-in-disguise legends. It might not be relevant, but it might interest you.

You are welcome to stay. I made spaghetti for you and you slept
right through it.

Somehow the typed words held a disappointed, pouting rumble. Arthur blinked and looked up again, not certain how he’d possibly slept through Bertie cooking anything. He couldn’t believe he fell asleep at all. Anyone else in his situation would most likely be trying to get the dragon to trust him enough to let down his guard, not the other way around.

He sniffed the air, not sure if he was disappointed he couldn’t smell anything, not smoky herbs, nor even oregano and garlic. At R. Cooper

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least not until he was up and in the kitchen, where the swinging doors must have trapped the steamy scent of tomato sauce inside.

Inside the fridge was a sticky note that just said his name, on top of a plastic container.

Arthur thought about leaving it. Then he thought of his sister and what she’d do for even half a bowl of spaghetti. He took it and stuffed it into his backpack with his laptop and more of Bertie’s notes, hurried back into his still-damp clothes, and headed outside to get home before it started to rain again.

There was dim light from somewhere upstairs, visible through the high windows at the front of the house, that made Arthur stop and wait until he realized that the design of the house meant no one was going to appear silhouetted in that window. Then the chill made him hop on his bike and race home.

THE spaghetti was delicious: fresh sauce made with a hint of red wine, tender meatballs, fat noodles cooked al dente. To be honest though, the sauce could have come from a jar and the noodles could have been mush and Arthur still would have loved it.

He and his sister wolfed down every last mouthful, and his smile at having so much flavor to go with his full stomach lasted until Kate wondered innocently if his new boss wasn’t trying to woo him with food.

Arthur blushed a red so fiery that Kate’s expression went from teasing to suspicious and then to knowing, and only by burying himself in a book—one of Bertie’s—did Arthur finally convince her to back off.

It was only temporary, he knew that. She had questions, and she would only have more the longer he avoided the subject. She liked to think of herself as street-smart despite the fact she’d been drunk or high or both for most of her adolescence and could barely remember time spent in the bad parts of town following around her asshole boyfriend.

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Arthur was okay. He was handling things well. He hadn’t made too big a fool of himself, if he didn’t count falling asleep instead of working and letting himself get tucked in, and he was going to return the Tupperware and thank Bertie for the food today… and then apologize for falling asleep at work like that.

Bertie might tease him, but Arthur was pretty confident it would be okay as long as he brought it up first thing today.

There was a van parking outside of Bertie’s house as Arthur rode up, and he kept an eye on it as he left his bike and helmet on the porch. It was too early to check for mail, something Arthur did if he thought Bertie had forgotten, and he wasn’t sure if the van was for Bertie, but he lingered just in case it was.

The name and logo were for the high-end—all natural, organic, imported—grocery store in town, where Arthur couldn’t afford to buy water. He hadn’t even known they delivered.

He studied it as the driver got out of the van and opened up the back, but then gave up his surveillance and turned to go inside. He closed the door behind him and caught a flash of movement from upstairs.

“There’s a van outside,” he called up. “Did you order something?”

“You must be more specific, Arthur.” Bertie’s voice was muffled, as if he was getting dressed. A sudden thump made Arthur move, but he stopped at the pissy “Damn it all!” that followed.

Before he could ask if Bertie was okay, the doorbell rang.

There was still no sign of Bertie, but Arthur heard him mumble before he raised his voice. “Could you get that please, Arthur dear?”

Arthur was already turning to do that, but he put down his backpack next to the umbrella stand first. Maybe it was the slight delay, but when he opened the door, the delivery driver paused before giving him an incredulous look. The driver was tall and broad shouldered, with blond hair that reached his neck and a square jaw that looked like part of an illustration from
Ivanhoe
. He had on a short-sleeved uniform shirt that showed off his biceps and a nametag R. Cooper

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that read “Drew.” He was holding a crate full of food, and he took his eyes off Arthur for a moment to consider the short swords on the wall by Arthur’s head. Unlike Arthur, he looked like he might have been happy to use a sword if he were a medieval knight confronting a dragon.

Then he regarded Arthur again, and Arthur couldn’t tell if the guy saw him as very different from pieces of metal on a wall.

Drew’s expression was curious but calculating, as if he hadn’t expected to see Arthur and didn’t know what to do with him. Arthur reminded himself that most medieval knights were actually ruthless mercenaries and put his shoulders back as he lifted his chin.

“Hi,” he said to be polite, but didn’t move. It didn’t seem like a good idea to let just anyone walk into Bertie’s house, and Arthur didn’t feel like moving. He ignored Drew’s look of surprise, though Arthur was guessing he had the man’s full attention now.