Don't Feed the Dragon: A Dragon Rider Urban Fantasy Novel (Setting Fires with Dragons Book 1) Read online

  Every time Percy began his ascent, I did my level best to hold onto that spine on his back, tried to keep my grip with my thighs, but the angle was too challenging.

  Before he reached the barn’s airy ceiling, I’d lose my grip and fall back to the ground. And when I hit the hay for the thirty-first time this morning, I just lay there a while with my eyes closed.

  Percy swooped back down and landed at my side. “Maybe I need a saddle.”

  I cracked an eye open. “I thought you said a saddle would be undignified. That it made you a horse.”

  “I’ve decided it’s more dignified than you falling off in the middle of a show.”

  I half-smiled. “You know this means you can’t blame me when I do buy a saddle and put it on you.”

  “Yeah, I know.” He swung his tail with the kind of impatience I’d grown to recognize as a sign we were nearing the end of our training session. “But I’ll probably blame you anyway.”

  I sat up. “That was a very mature thing to say, Perce.”

  He side-eyed me. “What was?”

  “You recognizing your own behavior. Your habits.” I stood with renewed energy. “Let’s give it another go before we try the saddle.”

  He reluctantly agreed. And once again, I fell off before he even turned upside down. That made thirty-two falls.

  It was after the thirty-second fall that a steel wool brush dropped from the ceiling and landed beside me in the hay.

  I jerked up, staring into the rafters. “What was that, Perce?”

  “Try the brush,” a familiar Scottish voice said from the shadows above.

  I stood, blinking up at the spot where I’d heard the voice. “Ferris?”

  A small form materialized on one of the rafters. He stood with folded arms and proud posture. “He hasn’t molted yet. That’s why you keep falling off.”

  ↔

  I picked up the brush. It had steel wool for bristles. “Did you follow us last night?”

  He nodded at the brush, ignoring my question. “That should do the trick.”

  I stared at him. “What’s this brush got to do with anything?”

  Ferris dropped from the rafters and landed in a somersault. When he came to his feet in front of me, he pointed at Percy. “Your dragon hasn’t fully molted yet. Young dragonlings will have a shine to them until it gets rubbed off.”

  “A shine?” I glanced back at Percy, who was craning his head around to examine his scales on his sides. “If he’s got a shine, that just makes him prettier.”

  “I don’t want to be pretty,” Percy said.

  “The shine’s why you keep sliding off,” Ferris said. “Usually a mother dragon will rub that shine off by breathing fire on it. Makes the scales less slippery.”

  “Now let me get this straight,” I said. “I keep slipping off Percy’s back because he’s still got afterbirth on him?”

  “That’s right.” Ferris’s expression didn’t brook any argument, and I wondered if he was always this confident, or if he had a special knowledge he just hadn’t let me fully in on.

  Either way, I supposed it couldn’t hurt.

  Before I turned back to Percy, I pointed the brush down at Ferris. “How’d you find us? Was it your extrasensory ninja tracking skills?”

  He shrugged. “Dordri’s been following you since the break-in.”

  “Dordri?”

  “He’s our best tracker. Has a keen interest in blue dragons.”

  I glanced toward the ajar barn door. “And he didn’t come along?”

  “It’s just me.”

  Whether I believed him or not, I wasn’t too concerned about Ferris. After our fight in the mansion, I knew Percy could kick his hide. But most of all, the gnome had a way about him; he didn’t seem like a bad guy to me. And I’d met enough bad guys in my life to know one when I met him.

  Well, time to try his method.

  I slowly turned around, holding up my hands as though approaching a feral animal. “Perce, what do you say we try this brush on you?”

  He curled his tail the way he always did when he was about to start arguing with me. “No brushes.”

  I took another step closer. “Aw, come on. You don’t even have hair to snag.”

  Percy blew smoke from his nostrils and flapped his wings. Before I could stop him, he’d flown through the door and out into the daylight.

  “GoneGodDamn it.” I threw the brush on a hay bale. “He won’t be back for at least two hours now.”

  Ferris climbed up onto the bale. “That dragon hasn’t imprinted on you.”

  I side-eyed him. “Imprinted?”

  “Baby dragons imprint wholly on their mothers. Percy hasn’t accepted you as his mother.”

  I approached the bale. “How do you know?”

  “When he was arguing with you, his tail curled.”

  I lifted one shoulder. “So? I thought it was just a quirk of his.”

  “A dragon would never curl his tail to anyone he’s imprinted on.”

  Well, that one stung. I pointed a finger at Ferris. “I was picking up his poo when he was the size of a German shepherd, and he still hasn’t imprinted on me?”

  “Well …”

  But I was mad enough to steamroll right past him. “I was there when he took his first step, took his first flight, flapped his first wing. I actually hatched him. Do you know how hard it is to hatch a dragon's egg?”

  “Oddly enough, my dear, I do. How did you do it?”

  That stopped me dead. I shook my head. “Not even Percy knows how I did that, and I will never tell.”

  It hurt like a nettle to know Percy still didn’t think of me as kin. Ferris was right, though: Percy had never quite taken to me like I’d hoped. There was always a friction between us.

  Was that his fault, or mine?

  “Well how do I get him to imprint on me, then?”

  Ferris shrugged his small shoulders. “I wouldn’t know. In all of history, I have never heard of a dragon imprinting on any other creature besides another dragon. They’re not ducks, after all.”

  I tried to ignore the pain of that statement, too. “I’m just his protector, anyway.”

  Ferris sighed, picked up the brush. “You don’t understand. For dragons, bonding with their mother is massively important. They aren’t like you humans, who can form new attachments. The mother serves many roles for such an intelligent child: nurturer, protector, teacher, listener. Have you heard of George R.R. Martin?”

  I folded my arms. “Sure. The author.”

  “Yes, the author. He coined a term—‘mother of dragons.’ He understands the full implications of such a role.”

  I leaned on the bale next to Ferris. “How do you know so much about dragons?”

  “I and my fellow ninjas once served an elven lord of the UnSeelie Court.” He tossed the brush into the air, caught it on the tip of a finger and balanced it there without any effort. “We were part of an ensemble who raised and cared for his dragons. It was an elite job.”

  “Sounds like you were stablehands.”

  He chuckled, totally unoffended. “Yes, in human terms. But in the world of myth, outside of true nobility there were few more coveted positions than ours. Me and the six others—”

  “Let me guess,” I cut in. “Sleepy, Dozy—”

  Ferris shot me a withering look. “First of all, those are the seven dwarves, and they belong to a fairytale. And second, you're being an asshole.”

  I sighed. “I'm sorry—I’m just agitated because Percy flew off. Please, go on.”

  He kept balancing the brush on the tip of his finger, focusing but not really focusing on it. “The lord had a fondness for raising dragons, though we gnomes did all the raising. Did you know that Percy is actually a blue dragon of the UnSeelie Court?”

  “I know he's blue.”

  Ferris snorted. “I'm glad you're not color blind. The point is, blue dragons are incredibly rare.”

  I gave him a slant-eyed look. “Aren't dragons
rare?”

  “Not as rare as you think. Just follow me for a second: he's a blue dragon, and they're the rarest of all. Green, copper, red—-all far more common than the blue. And those pointy canines of his tell me he's a dragon of the UnSeelie Court.”

  “OK, so he’s a rare color and he’s descended from this special court. What’s your point?”

  Ferris picked up the brush, gazed at the bristles. “I knew Percy's mother. And she's still alive in the GoneGod World.”

  I stood up straight, heat rising up my neck. "First you tell me Percy hasn't imprinted, and then you tell me his biological mother is alive?"

  "I'm not necessarily saying he should be with his mother.” The gnome was good at reading my body language. “That Yaroz can be a mean one, after all. But he won’t imprint on you, and he does need a mother to show him a dragon’s ways. I just wanted you to know she's out there, and I think she’s got a small brood with her, too."

  Not just a full-grown dragon, but other dragon children. Maybe some were Percy’s age.

  I didn’t want to continue this thread any further. Not without giving it some time to process. So I did what I do best: change the subject. “Why are you searching so hard for those gnomelings, anyway?”

  Ferris’s brows went up, and he lowered the brush, fixed his attention fully on me. “Have you heard of the goddess Sheyanna?”

  “Never.”

  He set an enamored, wistful hand to his chest. “She was beautiful, our race’s goddess of love and beauty. Every one hundred years, she picked a sire for her gnomelings. It was the only way gnomes were born into the world. And can you guess when the last flock of gnomelings was sired?”

  I closed one eye as I considered. “Right before the gods left?”

  “Yes.” Ferris lowered his head. “Just two months before the gods declared that they were leaving the world and sending all their denizens to Earth, Sheyanna gave birth to the final eight gnomelings. They are whom we seek—the last gnomes to be born in this world.”

  Now I understood their fervency. This wasn’t just about rescuing gnomes—it was about rescuing the last gnomish children to ever be born.

  "Are you telling me that once a century, Mama Goddess Gnome births ten of you, and that's population growth for you?"

  “Yes, that’s what I’m telling you.” He chuckled. “If our race was a nation, you can imagine how large our GDP would be.”

  Microscopic indeed.

  I swallowed, giving him a moment.

  After a time, he lifted his face to me. “Now it’s your turn. Last night you mentioned that a desire for vengeance had brought you to that house. What do you seek vengeance for?”

  My lips folded. “Vampires murdered my family when I was fourteen. I’m hunting them down, and that’s all I’m going to say on that.”

  He nodded. “Fair enough.” He rummaged in his shirt pocket. “That folder you showed us last night gave us a lead on the gnomelings. One I have a feeling you’ll be interested in.”

  I refocused on him. “Oh?”

  Ferris retrieved a photograph and held it out to me. “Know who he is?”

  I took the photo, stared down at the face. My lip curled without my consent, my blood heating in my veins as I dropped to one knee. My hand went to my head as a sharp pang hit my brain.

  It was him. Peter. Such a simple name for such an awful bastard.

  I’d spent years wondering if, since the gods left, the Scarred had become less hateful. Less brutal. Not this one; it was obvious in his face.

  He was young and pretty and full of smug arrogance. Even now, as an ex-vamp. As an eminently fragile mortal.

  I’d blocked out so much of that night, but seeing his face in that photograph, it was unmistakable. He was there, he was one of the murderers, and what's more, I now had a snapshot memory of him smiling with blood-tainted lips.

  “I know him,” I whispered. “He’s one of the vampires who killed my family.”

  “I see,” Ferris murmured. He knelt to help me up. ““How many years ago did it happen?”

  I resisted crumpling the photo in my hand. “The night the gods left.”

  “Ah, so five years ago. You know what they say—revenge is best served cold.”

  I glanced at the empty entrance to the barn, where I’d last seen Percy. “Personally, I like mine served with a side of dragon fire.”

  Ferris tapped the photo as we both sat on the hay bale. “This man is one of the Scarred. As is the gnomeling trafficker whose mansion we both infiltrated last night.”

  So Ferris knew something about Peter. And it came as no surprise that Mr. Trafficker was Scarred, too. “What’s the lead?”

  “We know they’re meeting tomorrow afternoon. Our trafficker will be delivering a briefcase to your Peter.”

  “And you know where it’s taking place.”

  Ferris nodded.

  I flicked the photo between my fingers. “Are you and your friends going to be there?”

  “No. This isn’t to do with the gnomelings. We have to wait for the right moment to rescue them.”

  “Ah.” So he was here to do me a favor in exchange for giving him the folder. I handed him back the photo.

  Ferris took it with hesitation. “You don’t want to keep it?”

  “Don’t need to. I’d know that face with my eyes closed.”

  Chapter 4

  I extended a beignet toward Percy, who ignored it at first. Then, after a few more steps down the street, he yanked it from my hand. I felt his teeth graze my fingertips.

  He was still kinda mad about the steel wool brush.

  “People are looking at me,” he said.

  “You’re a dragon on a sidewalk in the French Quarter during Mardi Gras. If they weren’t looking, that’s when you’d need to start worrying.”

  He extended his wings a nervous six inches as a woman stopped and gasped when she came around the side of a building, purple and green beads clacking at her chest. His head rose on his long neck.

  I waved at the woman. “Morning.”

  “That’s a dragon,” she said to me, blinking.

  I leaned over to loop an arm over Percy’s back. “And his name’s Percival.”

  She stared, turning a half-circle as we continued by.

  “See,” he said. “Not just looking. Gawking.”

  “Because you’re so handsome.” I popped a beignet in my mouth. “We should do another show in the French Quarter. Never made better tips anywhere.”

  “I thought we were here on a mission, not to do a show.”

  “Sure, but that doesn’t mean we can’t make conversation.” When I extended the last beignet toward him, he glanced into a shop window instead. I shrugged and polished it off, dropping the bag into a trash can as we passed.

  We arrived at the bench in question, overlooking the Mississippi. I sat down, extending my legs and crossing them at the ankle. I raised my face toward the sun as all the tourists passed us by.

  Percy ascended to the elevated grassy area behind me. He crouched there with his head hanging over the bench next to me. “Why would this ex-vampire guy do his business in the middle of the day in the French Quarter?”

  “Maybe because he can nowadays,” I said, still staring into the nothingness of the blue sky. “Or maybe because there’s so many people out, nobody would think anything of it.”

  Another reason had occurred to me: this kind of meeting only happened in public when the two parties didn’t trust one another. And given me and seven ninjas had just broken into Mr. Gnome Trafficker’s house last night, Peter might assume his friend was compromised. Hence the outdoor meeting.

  The Scarred tended to be a paranoid bunch. Ironic, when they were the ones most people were scared of.

  They were thieves. Murderers. Land pirates.

  I folded my hands over my stomach. “Say, did you brush your teeth today?”

  “No.” A pause. Then, “Did you brush your teeth?”

  I peeked at him. “
Of course. Got to set a good example for my dragon.”

  “But I breathe fire every morning. It’s natural sterilization.”

  I shrugged. “It’s the principle of the thing, Perce. Good habits and all. Like cleaning your scales and not eating too much sugar. When I brush my teeth, the example I’m showing you is one of a responsible human being.”

  “That’s a nice change.”

  Well, that one hit home. I uncrossed my legs, sat up. “All right, let’s get this steel wool brush business out of our hair.”

  He turned his face away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I know steel wool is your least favorite material in the world. I know you don’t like me mothering you, either, because I’m not a real dragon.”

  He sighed a tiny stream of smoke.

  “Listen, Perce.” I gave him my full attention, turning my body in his direction. “I won’t ever make you do anything you don’t want to do. I’m not your mom, and I accept that. But I am your protector, and I’ll always aim to do what’s best for you.”

  He eyed me. “You promise you won’t force the brush on me?”

  I raised my pinkie finger. “Promise.”

  He couldn’t entwine pinkies with me, but that was how I’d always done promises with my mom and sister when I was a girl. Nowadays when I made a promise, I just raised my pinkie in the air and he got the message.

  I could tell he’d accepted my promise when he slow-blinked. Yes, just like a cat. The two creatures had more behaviors in common than you’d expect. “Hey,” he said. “Is that him?”

  I turned a slow and nonchalant eye toward the pedestrians on the boardwalk. There he stood, his back to us. Dirty blond hair, a slight build. But even without seeing his face, I knew it was him—the ex-vamp I’d last encountered just before the gods left.

  Peter.

  The reaction was instant: my heart’s constriction, then the overlarge thump. The warming of my chest all the way up my neck to my cheeks. My fingers forming fists, nails digging into my palms, blood rushing in my ears.

  He participated in the killing of my family. I could hardly resist throwing myself from the bench, lunging at him, tackling him to the pretty boardwalk. I wanted to claw his mortal eyes out.