CHAPTER NINETEEN
Lukendevener
The morning after our trip into the book does not go at all according to plan. I expected to finish asking Skye questions about human sexuality, to discover why the male opened up so quickly.
Yet there’s no Skye in my kitchen, even though I dawdle over breakfast, no Skye in my library, no matter how long I wait.
I stalk through the halls, tail lashing from side to side, batting against my suits-of-armor trophies and setting them ringing like struck gongs.
No Skye emerges, asking what’s wrong. My nose carries me from her room to the kitchen, where I find a note attached to the front of the refrigerator, written in her looping handwriting, all graceful lines and decorative swirls.
Going to spend all day with the girls. We have a Witch Bitch Spicy Book Club Meeting this evening, so I’ll be back late.
—Skye
“All day?” Did she really need to get away from me that badly? What about our research into breaking her spell? What about my questions about human sex?
If she’s not going to answer them, there’s only one thing to do—I’ll simply research the subject on my own.
I stomp back to the reading room, activate the portal window, and step out into a hallway buried deep in the area dedicated to humans.
It’s a brand new aisle, the wooden shelves not yet budding any vines.
The books are similarly new, gathered via a spell Severin arranged for me that orders them through the local bookstore.
Paper spines covered in an array of colors surround me, each with improbable titles, such as Hot Werewolf Nights and His Bite Is Forever.
Never have I wished more for Skye’s ability to sort books, yet these books are the last thing I want her to know about.
How would I explain owning several aisles of human romance books?
My eyes continue to search, first one bookshelf, then the next.
Then I spot it: This Dragon of Mine. Humans write romances about dragons?
I grunt and add it to the pile in my arms.
Instead of returning to the reading room, I settle into the small reading nook I created specifically to keep Skye from discovering I’m researching human romances. A padded chaise lounge sits tucked between a pair of bookcases, a small table placed nearby.
I begin speed reading, crunching my way through a continuous stream of the cinnamon candies Skye loves so well.
I will become an expert in this human “romance.”
Several hours later, the angry growl of my stomach interrupts me as I scribble another set of notes. Not that it will do me much good.
I let out an annoyed breath, taking in the books and pieces of parchment scattered all around me.
I’ve read over twenty books and am more confused than ever.
Some stories were funny, while others contained battles and warfare.
Some had male leads who were criminals, while others were heroes.
Men were harsh in several of the books, the sex fiery encounters fueled by hate.
In others, the men were gentle and loving and willing to do anything for the women.
I shuffle through the parchments again, looking for any sign of cohesion, and growl when I find none. Clearly, I need to find a way to hone in on which types of romances I should be reading. Which type of romance is the book we’re trapped in?
The dragon romances… I shake my head. Most are humans first who can turn into a dragon, instead of it properly being the other way around.
I read one entire book where the man never shifted into a dragon a single time.
Imagine denying yourself such a superior form!
Many of the others have inaccuracies as well: the so-called dragons don’t have fire, or they don’t have two cocks, or they don’t have libraries, for goddess’s sake!
I also read a couple of normal human romances without any magic or mystical beings.
One of them offered some insight into what might have happened yesterday, with a male lead who “fell first and harder” and constantly expressed his feelings before the woman.
Yet the next I read had a male character very concerned about “playing it cool.” He didn’t want to show how much he liked the female in case she didn’t return his affections.
In another, the people don’t actually care a great deal for each other when they first have sex but grow to love one another after—an example of “casual sex” that leads to them “catching feelings.”
Which of these is it? Which will help us complete the plot of Dance of Desire successfully, if we can’t break the spell? Even more importantly, what type of romance does Skye prefer? I need to read more romance books.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. By the goddess, who even am I right now? What would the other dragons think if they saw any of this?
I stack my parchments on the reading nook’s side table and rise, my stomach insistent.
Once outside, I fling myself into the air, the blue deepening to purple overhead as the sun sinks below the horizon, painting the western sky with pink and orange.
The cold wind of evening makes my internal fire flame higher, and the lights of downtown beckon me forward, promising food and drink and company.
Not that I need company. I’m perfectly content being on my own. It was downright relaxing to have the castle to myself after so many days spent with Skye and Princess Buttercup.
Liar, the knotted muscles between my shoulder blades tell me, twinging with each wingbeat. I growl, at war with myself—my brain insisting I’m fine, my body speaking of tension and unease.
I land with a jolt in front of Slice of Life, coming down a bit too hard, my boots smacking the pavement. I’m still frowning as I stalk inside, only to be greeted with the high cry of “Pizza!” from several pixies. Warm air wraps around me, redolent with the scent of yeasty bread and garlic.
“Lukendevener!” Blue breaks away from the flock to fly over to me. She hovers, tiny blue hands on her hips. “We haven’t seen you lately. Don’t tell me you’re favoring another restaurant.”
“I’ve been eating at home.” Because I’ve had Skye’s wonderful cooking to enjoy. “No other restaurants,” I add quickly, wanting to keep the pixies on my good side. They may be small, but one should never underestimate their ability for mischief, especially when they have access to one’s food.
The pixie’s eyes narrow as she assesses me, then she says, “You will eat the pizza I pick.”
“I will.”
Blue gives a sharp nod and darts toward the kitchen, yelling in the high, whistling speech pixies use among themselves.
While I wait, I cross my arms and lean one shoulder against the wall, taking in the room.
Candleholders shaped like red hearts have replaced the regular ones on each table, and similar designs decorate the walls.
Couples fill every table, and everywhere I look, they’re holding hands or laughing together or gazing at each other with adoring expressions.
The door opens behind me, and a wood nymph enters, one willowy arm wrapped around the shoulders of a tall blond human, who wears shiny black skin-tight shorts that strain over his muscled thighs.
The men lean toward each other, like trees growing together, and when the human laughs, I could swear I see new buds sprout in the nymph’s willow-leaf hair.
“Jared! Eolar!” Blue waves them into the room. “I’ve got your table ready.”
“Thanks, Blue.” The blond human pulls out his phone. “Okay if I snap a few pics for my news blog? I’m doing a story on how the new businesses downtown are going all out decorating for Valentine’s.”
“Free publicity?” The pixie grins, showing off an alarming number of needle-sharp teeth. “Take as many pictures as you like.”
Several couples are happy to have their photos taken, wrapping their arms around each other or pausing in the middle of giving each other kisses on the cheek. Everyone looks deliriously happy and in love.
It seems this Valentine’s Day thing is spreading and should be considered potentially contagious.
A growl rumbles in my chest, the tip of my lashing tail hitting each side of the doorway, making repetitive thunks like an angry metronome.
Blue leads a group of pixies toward me, and as soon as they drop the delivery box in my hand, she shoos me out the door. “Go growl and grumble somewhere else. You’re bad for business when you’re like this.”
A snarl curls my lips, baring my fangs. Dragons are superior fae!
I’d never be this disrespected in Faerie, where my true form is as big as this entire restaurant.
Yet I bite back my retort, remembering once again that the pixies have the ability to refuse to serve me.
I shudder at the thought of needing to bribe Shadow to buy me pizza.
I stalk down the sidewalk, trying to ignore the pink and red hearts decorating all of the shops and the couples wandering along, hand in hand. Since when is this entire world nothing but couples? At least there won’t be any such nonsense at The Thirsty Tusk.
Except I’m wrong.
The door to the pub swings open on a roomful of revelers, several drinking decidedly pink drinks. There are even—horror of horrors—beer mats shaped like hearts.
I stomp up to the bar and poke at one with a claw. “By the goddess, what is this?”
Thorvinn scowls at me and grunts, covering the offending object with a tankard of ale.
A chuckle sounds beside me as Shadow steps out of thin air, holding his own pizza box. “Jasmine talked him into it.”
The orc glares at the werepanther, his green cheeks darkening.
“Our friend here is having woman trouble.”
“No woman,” Thorvinn grumbles, polishing a series of glasses, his movements quick and jerky. “No trouble.”
“Whatever you say, my friend.” Shadow grins and slides onto the stool beside mine.