9. Rafe #3
I took a drink of whiskey and immediately regretted the transparency of the act.
I didn’t drink because I was nervous. I drank because whiskey was available, and because the evening required patience, and because Quinn had laughed in the stairwell after I caught her by the waist, and the shape of her had remained in my hand with troubling comfort.
Quinn twisted the cap off the water and watched me over the rim of the bottle. “Are you pre-gaming a charity gala or medically treating your mood?”
“My mood does not require medical attention.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I looked at her. “Do you always interrogate your clients in transit?”
“Only when they open secret whiskey cabinets like Batman with a bourbon problem.”
Despite myself, I laughed under my breath.
Her expression changed, again. A quick brightening, followed by restraint, as if she’d found something she wanted and then remembered it was impolite to celebrate too openly.
It made me think of the thrift shop again, of her glancing over when I smiled at Octavia, surprise and interest moving across her face before she covered it with competence.
“You do that very quietly,” she said.
“What?”
“Laugh.”
“I laugh at an appropriate volume,” I said.
“According to who?”
“Decorum.”
“Ah. The ancient enemy of fun.”
“I enjoy things.”
“I believe you. I just suspect all of them involve a reservation, a dress code, and someone explaining the wine list in a whisper.”
“That’s inaccurate.”
“What else do you enjoy, then?” she asked.
The question should’ve been easy to answer. It was, in essence, small talk. People enjoyed flying, music, food, travel, sport. There were dozens of acceptable answers. I could’ve selected one and returned the conversation to safer ground.
Instead, I looked down at Max, who had placed his head on his paws and appeared to be listening with professional discretion.
“I enjoy flying,” I said.
Quinn’s expression softened at once, and that made the answer feel less casual than I’d intended. “In dragon form?”
“Yes.”
“What’s it like?”
There was no greed in the question. No hunger for spectacle.
I’d fielded a thousand variations of it from people who wanted to be close to rarity, who wanted a story, who wanted to say they had spoken to a dragon and been told something impressive.
Quinn asked as if she understood there was a difference between admission and a performance.
I swirled the whiskey in the glass, watching the city lights bend through the glass.
“Some days it feels like relief,” I said.
“My human body is not a poor fit, exactly, but it is an incomplete one. My dragon form is larger, obviously. Stronger. But it is also simpler. Every sensation is different in that form. Wind, weather, altitude. Scent. Heat. Distance. My body knows what to do before my mind begins making arguments.”
Quinn had gone still beside me.
I felt the silence and realized I’d said more than I meant to.
“That sounds beautiful,” she said.
“It is.” The admission sat between us, quiet and bare.
She looked down at Max. “He’s flown more than I have. Not on dragons, obviously. Unless the military has a division I don’t know about, which honestly, with Olden Folk, wouldn’t surprise me.”
“They do not.”
“You answered that very quickly.”
“I would know.”
“Would you?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes cut to mine, curious but careful. “Because of your family?”
“In part.”
I looked out the window again as we passed a row of restaurants, their windows bright with people leaning over tables, hands moving as they spoke.
It was easier to talk to glass and reflection than to Quinn’s direct attention.
“My father’s side has business with many American wolf packs.
The business deals with logistics. Olden Folk communities often prefer to keep certain supply chains within trusted networks. ”
“That makes sense,” she said. “If you’re moving magical goods, you probably don’t want some random guy named Chad from a freight company asking why the crate is growling.”
I glanced at her.
She lifted one shoulder. “I assume at least one crate has growled.”
“Probably.”
“I knew it.” Her mouth curved, and I felt the answering pull in my own before I stopped it.
“My father is Italian, and a wolf shifter. His family built the business over generations.”
“And your mother?”
The question was gentle. Still, my hand tightened around the tumbler before I made it release.
“My mother is Aoi Fujimori-Virelli,” I said. “Her mother was Irish American and her father Japanese American. Dragon.”
Quinn didn’t interrupt. She didn’t react to the name or try to repeat it, which I appreciated. Some people treated names like party tricks they were entitled to perform badly.
“She was born here,” I continued. “Her father was born here as well, but his parents came to America after the Winged War.”
Quinn’s face shifted into focus. “The war between dragons and phoenixes.”
“Yes.”
“I know the basic public-school version. Which means I know almost nothing and probably most of it is wrong.”
“The Winged War began roughly two hundred and fifty years ago,” I said. “Dragons and phoenixes had never been numerous compared to other Olden Folk, but before the war, there were communities, large houses and lineages that spanned centuries. The war destroyed most of that.
“My great-grandparents fled Japan near the end of it. They were already old by dragon standards when they left. They survived long enough to make a life here, long enough to raise my grandfather, but not long enough to give him all the language or history. They couldn’t pass on all the rites or songs or obligations that had been carried before them. ”
Quinn cleared her throat. “And the relics? I read the case files, but is there more?”
“Not really. Some were scattered along the way. Some were traded for passage or lost in relocation. Some taken after death by people who decided old things without convenient heirs became available to whoever had the fastest hands and the best paperwork.”
Her mouth tightened.
“So, this isn’t only about ownership,” she said. “It’s about getting the story back in one place. Preserving history.”
My throat went tight in a way I didn’t appreciate, and I stared into my whiskey. “Yes.”
The city moved around us, indifferent and bright.
Traffic slowed near an intersection, the car easing to a stop beside a bus shelter where a woman in a silver coat adjusted a child’s hat.
Quinn’s fingers rested around the water bottle in her lap.
Max shifted once at our feet and pressed lightly against her ankle.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
I turned my head.
She seemed to understand at once what I might object to, because she added, “Not in a pity way. In a that-shouldn’t-have-happened way.”
Most people apologized for losses like mine as if they were condolences at a wake. Soft voice, lowered eyes, a vague wish to escape the discomfort of someone else’s history. Quinn’s apology named harm without making me responsible for soothing her about it.
I took another drink. “Thank you.”
“What’s the story behind the sword? The one we’re going for tonight?”
I nodded. “It belonged to a protector of the family. Not blood but sworn to our line. He died ensuring my great-grandparents had time to escape.”
Her expression hardened. “Then we’ll charm the museum director’s pants off.”
I took another sip of my drink, mostly to avoid smiling too openly. It didn’t work as well as intended.
We merged into a faster lane, and the movement shifted Quinn slightly closer to me, the edge of her skirt brushing my leg. She adjusted it with a murmured apology.
“It’s fine,” I said.
Color rose along her cheekbones. “Thank you. For the car. And for bringing one with space for Max. And for the water. And for all the… rich-person logistics.”
“Rich-person logistics?”
“You have to admit, these have not been regular logistics.”
“No,” I said. “I suppose not.”
“I appreciate it.”
“You don’t need to thank me for necessities.”
There was something in her expression that made me think I’d stepped onto unstable ground. Like she’d encountered a door she was used to keeping shut, and I’d brushed too close to the handle.
“For the record,” she said lightly, though the lightness in her tone was too careful now, “my necessities usually involve a MetroCard and telling Max not to lick subway poles.”
“Does he lick subway poles often?”
“No, because I am an excellent mother.”
I let myself smile again. Her gaze caught on it, and the atmosphere in the car altered again. Clearing my throat, I set the tumbler into its holder.
“You should know,” I said, “the director may be difficult to approach. Her schedule is public only in the broadest sense, and she appears to prefer conversation in settings where she can evacuate.”
“Smart, if you dislike being cornered by people asking for things.”
“Obstructive, if you’re the person asking.”
The car slowed again as we pulled up to the hotel, its awning lit in warm gold, a small cluster of guests stepping from town cars and hired SUVs.
The interruption arrived precisely when it should’ve, before the conversation could become something neither of us could easily fold back into professional shape.
Quinn glanced out the window, then at me and Max. The nervousness returned, but it had been joined by something else now. Resolve. Curiosity.
“Well,” she said, smoothing one hand over her skirt. “Time to be charming.”