Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
It takes me entirely too long to leap into action, grabbing the fire extinguisher and running to the now flambé donation box. I’ve never used one before so sadly, it takes more time than I would like to admit. Did I have to refer to the instruction tag multiple times?
Maybe.
I pull the pin and then have to read the stupid instructions again because ADHD is a thing.
I’m fairly confident that it’s just a point and shoot situation from here, but I still have to consult the instruction manual that’s the size of a clothing tag attached by a fucking thread.
Pull the stupid pin, aim at the base of the fire, squeeze and sweep. How hard can it be?
Apparently, fucking hard.
The thing makes a fizzling sound and does… nothing.
“A little help would be nice!” I screech at the stranger, trying not to give into my panic and failing miserably.
He seems surprised at the harshness of my voice, but finally, he moves.
Grabbing one of the heavy throws on display from the back of one of the reading chairs, he tosses it over the flames and the iguana.
This seems to do the trick and, thankfully, I’m pretty sure Betsy hasn’t had the sprinkler system serviced in the last two decades, so they don’t trigger.
The last thing I need is to have to clean up burned books and have the rest of the store water-logged.
The flames die into smelly plumes of smoke.
“Are you alright?” the man asks, turning towards me.
“I’m fine, but look at this mess! It’s going to take days to get the smell of burning books to go away. People are going to get the wrong impression! You can’t burn books in a bookstore! This isn’t Florida!”
I push past him to drag a chair over, using it to prop open the door. Thankfully, since it’s not too hot or humid yet I can at least keep the door open in order to try to clear the smoke out.
He watches me intently.
“Do you need assistance?”
I glare at him. “No, I don’t need assistance,” I bite out. “You could, however, re-capture whatever the hell that animal is before it causes any more…”
Before I can finish my sentence, I feel a bump against my shin. Looking down, I see the weird little lizard, rubbing itself against my legs like a cat. Noticing it has my attention, it begins winding through my legs.
“Good thing she likes you,” he comments, watching her as she continues to love on my legs. Her scales are cool and smooth against my shins. “She’s yours. It’d be a shame if we came all this way for nothing.”
“Why do you keep saying ‘she’s mine’? I don’t have any pets, let alone a weird blue lizard that — apparently — sets random shit on fire.”
He grins. “She was just trying to be friendly. She was trying to show her love and affection. Because you’re her one.”
“Well that fire must have been for you, because I don’t have a lizard.”
“Nope,” he says, cheerfully. “It was for you. She would have started one earlier if it were for me.”
“What the hell is she, anyway?”
He looks at me like I have three heads. “She’s. A. Dragon.”
Of course she’s a dragon. Because that makes perfect sense.
Maybe I didn’t really get out of bed today.
Maybe I’m still sleeping and all of this is just a dream.
Maybe I actually rolled out of bed, catching my head on the sharp corner of the nightstand and this is all some sort of delusion caused by trauma and blood loss as my body lays dying on the floor.
There is no possible way that this is a dragon.
The animal on the floor finally sits down and looks at me. Then, it burps a perfect smoke ring.
Given the events of the day, I feel it’s completely reasonable to turn the sign on the door to ‘closed’, sit on the floor, and allow myself a round of hysterics.
It seems completely within my rights. The sign is hardly going to do much good with the door wide open, but given that it’s a weekday, foot traffic should be slow enough for me to complete my breakdown in relative peace. If I ignore my weird audience of one.
The second I sit down, the odd little dragon – no, lizard – that acts like a cat, climbs up into my lap.
After turning three circles, it lays down on my lap and sighs, happily.
Now that it is making itself comfortable, I can examine it more closely.
As the man had said, its scales are all shades of blue, which I had seen before.
Up close, however, it's obvious that her scales range in many shades — aqua to sapphire — and they seem to shimmer, shift and change in the sunlight. Her tiny wings are folded in and she’s wrapped her long tail around herself.
Her eyes are a striking silver, making the black slash of her vertical pupils stand out.
She looks up at me and cocks her head as if to say, “What’s the problem? ”
Hesitantly, I reach up with my hand and use two fingers to touch her head again. She closes her eyes, leaning into my fingers and makes that weird purring sound again.
Surprised, I look up at the man, who is watching us, smiling.
“Told you. Her one.”
“Who, exactly, is she? Like… What is her name? What’s your name, for that matter?”
I have been alone with an unknown, muscle bound man for at least twenty minutes without even getting a name.
Not very badass, true crime loving, feminist of me, I know.
Given the events of said twenty minutes though, I think it’s understandable.
He hasn’t tried to abduct me or kill me or stuff me in a freezer.
Yet. I guess the day is still relatively young, although it feels like an eternity has passed since I left home this morning.
“She is Calida,” He pauses. “I’m Flint.” He offers another bow, much like the one he used on Betsy.
“What is with the bowing? Where the hell are you from?”
He blinks at me, slowly. “As a warrior, it’s expected that I bow to females.” His eyes sharpen on my face, like he’s looking for something. “I’m from Goira.”
It feels like the world has just tipped on its side. Maybe I am bleeding out on my bedroom floor from a head injury. My head does one slow, sloshy spin.
“That’s not possible,” I whisper, absolutely horrified. “Goira doesn’t exist.”
He frowns, making to kneel down next to me. When I hold my hand out to ward him off, he huffs out a breath.
“Of course it exists! I should know. I was born and raised there, trained as a warrior there, defended it in battle.”
“No!’ I insist, my voice rising. “No, no, no. It’s not possible.”
“What do you mean? It’s more than possible — it’s fact.”
“Goira doesn’t exist.” My voice is continuing to rise, but I can’t seem to make it stop. The small dragon jumps off my lap and walks towards Flint, probably to try to get away from the crazy lady who is yelling and rocking back and forth on the floor.
“Goira doesn’t exist because I MADE IT UP!”