Chapter 19 #2
She must have seen some of the amorous couples stumbling out with clothing askew—or missing.
“The food is very good,” Rylana promised.
“I’ll get your drinks.” Vilma hurried away. Maybe she’d figured out that Jildarin was unlikely to leave gold coins.
“What happened at the diner while I was gone besides the fire?” Jildarin asked.
“I wasn’t there the whole time, so I’m not entirely sure.” Rylana was reluctant to tattle on Rolf, especially since his ill-gotten coins would help replenish the pantry.
“Under the pervasive scent of smoke—smoke that will linger for ages and befoul the taste and appreciation of my meals—I detected the myriad musky odors of sex.”
“Huh.”
“Many people were engaged in coitus. Not only in the diner but in my lair.” Jildarin shuddered. “I sleep back there.”
Rylana thought about suggesting that, if he could tell all that by scent, he ought to join the canine-handler division of the peacekeepers. He could find missing treasures lost to pixies and other thieves as easily as the trained hounds did.
“That should not have happened,” Jildarin continued. “I’ve lessened the amount of spice employed in my soup. Lately, it hasn’t been having that effect.” His eyes narrowed. “Did one of the staff meddle with the pot that I left simmering?”
“I heard a rumor that someone bumped a jar, causing more spices to fall in.”
“Rolf. To what end does he desire my patrons to have coitus?”
“Profit.”
Vilma arrived with a tray, a regular-sized steaming cup for Jildarin and four tiny espresso cups for Rylana.
She set them in a row with little cards that shared tasting notes and information about the regions and history of the chocolates used in the mochas.
Rylana smiled happily, enjoying the luxurious drinking experience.
After years of being a mercenary and being lucky if the supply wagons brought coffee beans of any sort, this almost made up for the fact that her father hadn’t been happy to see her, the diner was under siege, and Vormalt was up to who knew what.
Once Vilma left, Jildarin picked up his cup with both hands. He examined the latte from all angles, sniffed it, then set it back down.
Rylana closed her eyes as she sipped from one of her cups—ah, the rich, almost buttery texture of that mocha delighted her tongue.
She decided she wouldn’t try to coerce Jildarin to drink, but would simply enjoy her own.
He might think she’d arranged to have his cup poisoned if she tried too hard to get him to sip.
Besides, she’d brought him here to bolster him—and ensure that he returned to the diner—not turn him into a coffee connoisseur.
When she opened her eyes to deliver a compliment, she found him looking at her, his eyes narrowed.
“Are you silently judging me for relishing my flavored water?” she asked.
“Your four flavored waters.”
“Yes.” Rylana sipped from a second cup. “They’re delicious. I’ll bet this would go well with one of your sweeter bacons. A delightful breakfast dessert experience.” She finished the thought with a drawn-out mmmm.
“I suppose one who spends time crafting fine foods does like seeing that people enjoy them,” Jildarin said.
“So, you’re not judging me?”
“Hm.” He eyed the cups, probably not considering a barista a chef or the mochas fine foods.
At least he hadn’t insulted Rylana. That made it easier to continue with her bolstering mission.
“Silent judgments aside, you are a wonderful chef, Jildarin,” she said. “You should enter the contest even without your spices. I’m sure you would do well.”
“Why do you care if I enter it or not?”
“I want to see you succeed.”
“Why?”
“Your charisma, wit, and dashing smile have made me fall passionately in love with you.”
“I do not smile.”
“I know. I was being sarcastic.” So much for her bolstering attempts. Rylana groped for a reason he would believe.
Why did she care? Maybe Sylin was right, and she felt guilty.
Not only about shooting him but about the role of the mercenaries in the war as a whole.
Maybe she was trying to make up for the past. Or maybe, after leaving the career she’d had for more than fifteen years, she needed a mission.
Purpose. She could be feeling some of the same ennui at traveling listlessly as Sylin.
“You are my enemy and do not love me,” Jildarin said, “but I believe you are attracted to me.”
“You think so?”
“If not, after you imbibed so many servings of my soup, you would have directed your lust toward another.”
“Rolf and Gniknik were the only other males around. You could have shape-shifted into a fungus-covered log and had more appeal than they have. Than Rolf anyway. Gniknik is kind of cute, I suppose, but not in a sexual way, at least not to me.” Rylana sipped her drink.
“I don’t think any assumptions can be made based on what a woman does while under the influence of your spices.
I also thought the elves that wanted to drag me to their enclave for questioning were hot. ”
“To sexually pursue one would have been unwise.”
“Oh, I know.”
“A surprising number of humans did so during the war, finding elves alluring,” Jildarin said. “The elves sometimes used that to their advantage and gained intelligence from those who sought them out.”
“I heard of such things, yes. We were warned often against having liaisons with the enemy.”
Jildarin considered the latte again, then lifted it for a sip. He made a face afterward and set it down, but then he squinted thoughtfully at it. “I’ve heard of recipes that employ coffee as an ingredient.”
“You should make them promptly. I would be a fan.”
“I prefer to develop my own recipes, but sometimes I find existing ones to be inspiring.”
“I remember having coffee cake as a kid that had actual powdered coffee in the cinnamon streusel. It was fabulous.”
“A favorite treat of dragon young is the marrow of the giant foxtail ungulate.”
“I’m sure they share a similar flavor profile.
You’ll keep the diner open, won’t you? The staff has concerns, but we can fix it up.
You can’t let a rival drive you out of business.
By my calculations, you’re starting to turn a profit—or will be if we can keep arsonists from destroying your inventory. ”
Jildarin sipped the drink again. “My brother is the reason I left the diner before the dinner hour. You will tally the costs of the fire damage, prepare an invoice, and I will send it to him. He has far more funds than I, and he deserves to pay after his treacherous behavior.”
“What did he do?” Rylana thought again about Zilek’s comment on mating.
When Jildarin took a few more sips without pausing to answer, Rylana assumed he wouldn’t. Maybe it was a private matter. But he thunked the cup down, his milk foam quivering, and spoke with exasperation, whatever irritation he felt bubbling over.
“One of my mother’s female friends was waiting in the woods, seeking to mate with me, and he attempted to trick me into doing so.
She was going to shape-shift into an elf, thinking that I would, in this human form, find that alluring, and be at the wine meeting that he first attempted to lure me to.
When that did not work, he enticed me with the promise of a hunt.
I enjoy hunting, the exhilaration of seeking out prey and flying at great speed over and under and around obstacles as it flees.
I even enjoy hunting with my kin, though Zilek has perturbed me often enough of late that I may not go with him again.
Instead of seeking prey, he led me toward Sophoneliza. ”
“Is that… a female dragon? Or the name of an innovative new alchemy formula?”
“It is—she is—my mother’s acquaintance who seeks to reproduce soon and desires my sperm. I do not wish to be manipulated into mating.” He looked up from his latte to turn his exasperated gaze on her.
“I’ve gathered that.” Her cheeks warmed when she remembered kissing him.
But that hadn’t been her fault, damn it.
He shouldn’t have given her any of that soup.
It wasn’t as if she would have sprung upon him if she hadn’t been drugged—spiced.
Even if his gaze was a touch smoldering when he looked at her over the rim of his cup.
Rylana looked away. He was right. She was attracted to him. When had that happened?
“Are elves your type?” she asked, to distract him from the memory of that experience—and maybe herself as well.
“My what?”
“Are they what, er, who you’re attracted to when you’re in this form? I assume that when you’re a dragon, you’re attracted to your own kind.”
“Certainly.”
“But, as we discussed earlier, humans and elves had been known to… you know. Most of the intelligent two-legged species are closely enough related genetically that they can produce offspring.”
“I had an elven companion during the war, so perhaps that is why my brother believed a female with pointed ears might interest me, but my companion was male. We never had coitus. He rode on my back and fired arrows at the enemy when we flew into battle.”
“I saw some elves and dragons do that.” Rylana grimaced at the memory of such pairs flying past, the dragons breathing fire while the elves loosed arrows. Those teams had been devastating to the ground-bound human, dwarf, and orc militias.
“We fought together for many years before his passing during the last months of the war.” Jildarin looked toward the hiss of the espresso machine.
“He is the one who made me realize that food could be much more than raw meat from a fresh kill. In addition to being a fine archer and sword master, he was a chef among his people.”
“Ah.” Rylana had wondered how Jildarin had ended up with his culinary passion and where he’d learned what he knew.
“When we were not in battle, we foraged together for ingredients and made unique dishes. Considering we often had only a campfire and a pot, he came up with surprisingly exquisite concoctions.” Jildarin sighed at whatever memories came to mind.
Since Rylana had also lost good companions over the years of being a mercenary, she understood perfectly well.
“He is the one who said I had a knack for combining ingredients,” Jildarin said, his gaze still toward the espresso machine and the steam wafting from it, though he was probably looking into the past instead of seeing it.
“He even suggested… We talked of visiting Tranquility together once the fighting was over. He spoke of the many and varied cuisines and fine diners here. We planned to taste from the menus and critique the offerings.” Jildarin, who’d said he didn’t smile, smiled ever so faintly, but it soon faded.
“He was killed three months before the war’s end. ”
“I’m sorry that you lost a good friend.”
He barely seemed to hear her, but he murmured, “Yes.”
“I’ll bet he would want you to keep cooking—and to go to that contest and win it.”
Jildarin rumbled something that could have been agreement, disagreement, or just a thoughtful hm. Then he got up and walked out of the coffee shop.
Rylana didn’t know if she’d succeeded in talking him into staying in the competition or not, but it was at least promising that he wanted to invoice his brother for the repair costs of his diner. One only repaired something that one planned to continue to use.