Sugar & Dragon Act I: Temptation (Sugar & Dragon #1)

III Hera

Dago Midais. A magus from a remarkably wealthy family of businessmen with nightmarish tendencies. Cunning, greedy, debauched.

Cheeky.

No way , Hera thought, sitting in the office cluttered with scrolls and artifacts and listening to Master Homer, who was explaining why she should strengthen her relationship with Dago. Not him.

“Not counting the queen and I, the two of you are the most powerful magi in the kingdom. One of you must become the Archmagus. Since you refuse, that leaves him—but that does not relieve you of your responsibility. Considering the strength of nightmarish tendencies common in his family, Dago is exceedingly sensible and composed… Yes, Hera, I can see your skepticism, but even you have to admit that besides not hiding the extent of his sexual appetite—which, I remind you, is also a common phenomenon among magi of good-dreamy origin—so far, Dago has done nothing beyond the acceptable level of nightmarishness.”

Hera badly wanted to disagree, but she knew that Homer was right. In his desire for sex, power, and gold, Dago didn’t violate any social, economic, or environmental laws. It annoyed her, but since that annoyance wasn’t sensible, she didn’t say it aloud.

Not hearing any objections, Homer continued, “His common sense is the main reason why I think it’s worth giving him a chance to serve as Archmagus, but since I hold the title myself, I have to take into account various scenarios. Despite my faith in him, I admit that the scenario in which Dago loses himself in his instincts is not unlikely. That’s why I have to ask for your help, Hera. You may not hold an official post, but that won’t change the fact that you are one of the few who have the power to stand against the nightmared Archmagus.”

“I understand your motivation, Master,” Hera said, trying not to show her impatience. “What I do not understand is your request. Why do I have to befriend him?”

Homer adjusted his large, round glasses, which had slipped down his hooked nose, and watched her with benignancy shining through the blackness of his eyes. “Because I believe this way, we will avoid the most nightmarish scenario. Dago won’t admit it aloud, but he respects you. Power and intelligence impress him, and you have them both. He reckons with your opinion, albeit reluctantly. I truly believe that if he spent more time around you, he would develop what he currently lacks and what you have in abundance—selflessness.”

Hera stared at the gray-haired man with barely contained disbelief. How could someone who had held the position of Archmagus for half a century be so na?ve?

“We spent ten years studying together,” she remarked. “Don’t you think, Master, that if my presence had a beneficial effect on him, we would already know about it?”

Homer ran his fingers through his goatee. “I think that the classroom often intensifies rivalry to such an extent that even the brightest students forget about the real purpose of their studies.” Seeing her blush, he smiled gently. “But would the same students who were used to competing with each other at school still do so if they were united by a common goal outside of it?”

“So this is a didactic experiment?” Hera crossed her arms. “I remind you, Master, that Dago and I finished school a long time ago. We are thirty, and we’ve spent the last ten years avoiding each other. If you want to try out a new curriculum, shouldn’t you do it with your current students?”

The Archmagus shook his head. “You’re weaseling, Hera. It’s unlike you. Do you really not care that someone you shared a school desk with might one day turn into a chaos-sowing nightmare? Are you really unconcerned that the lives of your family, friends, and patients may become devoid of logic? Do you really intend to sit on your hands, knowing that you could help thousands of people?”

Hera swallowed. She knew she was falling victim to manipulation verging on emotional blackmail, but she couldn’t find any reasonable counterarguments. She didn’t want to get any closer to Dago than she already was, but she also didn’t want him to become the second Medea Mephistopheles—the woman who a thousand years ago had brought wandering mushrooms from the Dreamland and caused a nationwide orgy, changing the course of history forever. If there was something Hera could do to prevent the catastrophe, why would she not do it? That would be nightmarishly illogical.

“I’ll try,” she said weakly. “But I can’t guarantee results.”

Homer’s face brightened.

“No one expects that from you. Just do what you can.”

***

I can do it , Hera repeated to herself, taking a seat on the bench Dago gestured at.

For now, almost everything had gone according to the plan. True, it didn’t assume falling victim to a curse, and Hera was still irritated that some morpheus had managed to break the magical barriers on her house, but she had to admit that the gold-sugar transmutation wasn’t the worst prank a Dreamland dweller could have treated her with. It could even turn out to be useful. Thanks to it, Hera had gained an excuse to get closer to Dago—and that she had planned.

“Feeling comfortable, Galenos?” the fair-haired man asked with palpable amusement as she sat on the edge of the bench.

“Do you care?” The words were out of her mouth before she had time to think about them.

“Perhaps.”

Dago strode to the bench, but instead of taking a seat at the opposite end, he sat near her, sidelong, with his arm on the backrest. The white towel he’d wrapped around himself was too long for the word “suggestive” to describe this casual pose, but Hera still felt strange. Dago always approached her with brazen confidence, but he never tried to influence her with his physicality. Had years of indulging his desires made him unable to resist his seducer instinct, even in the case of his rival? If so, then Master Homer was right to worry that Dago would one day become a nightmare, as well as to ask Hera for help. Nightmaring occurred gradually. If Hera got closer to the man, it would be easier for her to monitor the possible progress of his personality’s deformation.

I can do it , she told herself again.

“So you think you’re cursed,” Dago said, focusing on her the calculating gaze of his silver eyes. “Do you have any suspicions about the perpetrator?”

“I think it was an ifrit. An imp wouldn’t be able to rebuild the spellbarriers surrounding my house, which seemed intact.”

“Why do you assume it’s the work of a morpheus and not a magus with nightmarish tendencies?”

Hera looked at him suspiciously. “Did you do this?”

Dago made a disapproving tsk . “Do you really think that if I knew a spell that can turn sugar into gold, I would share it?”

“No,” she admitted. “For the same reason, I don’t think a magus did it either. It’s not profitable, so it’s senseless.”

“Maybe it’s senseless only on the surface.” Dago’s gaze slid down to her hands, which were resting on her thighs. Looking at them thoughtfully, he said, “What does this curse prevent you from doing?”

“I can’t touch sugar or gold without changing their properties?”

“But the curse doesn’t work when you wear gloves, does it?” When Hera nodded, he added, “So it doesn’t have a major negative impact on your life?”

Hera fell silent, realizing where his thoughts were heading. If the effect of the curse wasn’t devastatingly negative, maybe it had some positive aspects.

She looked down at her hands. Thoughts about these positive aspects led her to the conversation she’d had with Master Homer a few days ago. It couldn’t be his curse, could it?

Her imagination prompted an image of the man—who she’d always thought wore ridiculously large glasses to divert attention from his diabolically unfunny appearance.

Could it?

“I think it’s a plot,” Dago said suddenly.

Hera looked up, surprised. The sight of his slitted pupils, which had been round a moment ago, took her breath away. When he uncrossed his legs and leaned toward her, she was unable to move.

“Such a good dream like you wouldn’t dare to use enchanted gold,” he said, lowering his voice. “Only someone like me, who knows the legal loopholes and has no qualms about taking advantage of them, sees any benefit in this spell. So it begs the question: is it possible that someone is using you?”

He was now so close that he could touch her, but instead of unease, she felt fascination. Was his face always so beautiful?

“Are you a pawn…”

He lowered his voice even more. Its sound seemed to touch not only her ears, but farther. Deeper.

“…or are you trying to set me up yourself?”