16. Rafe
RAFE
MAX TACKLES A DRAGON
The clearing was far enough north that the city would disappear completely by the time the van turned onto the private road leading to it.
It would have taken twenty by air.
That was the thought I kept returning to as the van moved out of Manhattan and into the long, slow unraveling of traffic beyond it. Twenty minutes in dragon form, perhaps less if the weather held and I didn’t mind drawing speed from the higher currents. I could have carried them both.
The image came to me uninvited: Quinn held safely against my chest, Max in a harness arrangement I would have had made if necessary, the air cold and clean around us, her hair coming loose from whatever practical arrangement she had forced it into that morning.
It was a dangerous image to ponder.
Max was elderly, half deaf on one side, and far too dignified to be subjected to experimental dragon travel because I found New York traffic tedious.
Quinn barely knew me outside of the case, so I doubted a dragon flight would have gone over well.
Humans were often frightened of heights.
Sensibly so, given how breakable they were.
Besides, the van had space, cushioned flooring, water, and snacks. There was also a first-aid kit for Max, because once the driver had asked whether I meant water for the dog, I had realized I hadn’t been sufficiently specific about contingencies.
Quinn had climbed in, taken one look at the arrangement, and gone quiet.
Now Max slept in the back, stretched out on a folded blanket, exhausted from the dog park but alert enough that one ear still moved whenever Quinn unwrapped something from the food basket.
My staff had packed food when I had called ahead.
Nothing elaborate, I had said, which my kitchen staff had interpreted with skepticism and vastly more competence than requested.
There were sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper, sliced fruit, two glass bottles of sparkling water, one still, a tin of shortbread, napkins, and a separate container of plain grilled chicken labeled for Max in tidy handwriting.
Quinn had stared at the basket in shock, as if it had come from a fairy with a 401(k), then she ate half a sandwich in four bites.
I tried not to watch too obviously, but it was proving to be difficult.
She paused, looking faintly embarrassed. “Sorry. My lunch today was vibes and one questionable mint from the bottom of Max’s bag.”
“That doesn’t qualify as lunch,” I said in a disapproving tone.
“It had calories.”
“Barely.” I handed her the container of fruit.
She frowned at it. “Are you feeding me now?”
“Your lunch was a mint. You need to be fed.”
“It was a good mint.”
“Quinn.”
She took the fruit. “Fine. But I’m only doing this for the client.”
“The client appreciates your sacrifice.”
She smiled down at the container, and for once the humor didn’t entirely hide the pleasure. “The client has excellent strawberries.”
“I’ll be sure to tell the kitchen.”
“Please don’t. I don’t want anyone knowing I can be bought with fruit.”
“Don’t worry, you’re safe. I’m discreet.”
“You are many things, Virelli. Discreet is hit or miss.”
I should have objected, but as I watched her eat a strawberry, I found myself wishing, irrationally, that I had thought to ask what she liked before requesting my staff prepare something.
The drive stretched on.
The city thinned into suburbs, then into wider roads lined with trees just beginning to deepen toward summer.
Quinn grew quieter as the buildings fell away.
Not sleepy, though I could tell she was tired.
Her attention moved from the roadside houses to stone walls, fields, streams bright beneath narrow bridges.
At one point, we passed a nursery with rows of young trees in black pots, and she leaned closer to the window.
“Look at those Japanese maples,” she said. “They’re charging city prices for country trees. Bold.”
“You know tree pricing?”
“I know enough to resent it.”
“Is that based on expertise or principle?”
“Both. My entire personality is bargain-based outrage.”
Max shifted in the back and sighed.
Quinn glanced at him immediately, her hand settling near his shoulder. Her fingers moved once through the fur behind his ear, and he relaxed again.
She noticed so much. That was one of the problems.
I had told myself this trip was for Max, and that was still true.
The dog needed space, and I knew a place that could provide it.
The property belonged to an old family friend who maintained private acreage for conservation work and the occasional Olden Folk gathering far from curious human eyes.
There were fields, trails, a stream, and a wide clearing ringed by old trees.
Perfect for a dog who needed quiet and space.
Still, the question sat in me as the van turned off the main road.
Why was I adjusting my day around Quinn Bradley and her dog?
The auction was tomorrow. The mirror mattered. The sword issue remained open. There were documents to review and calls to make. And yet I had left the city on a Saturday afternoon because an elderly dog put his head in Quinn’s lap and she had looked tired in a way I disliked.
The answer, if I let it become simple, would be inconvenient.
So, I made it complicated instead.
Max was useful to the case. Quinn was useful to the case. Maintaining their effectiveness was prudent. Her insight had improved favorable outcomes twice already. The dog’s comfort affected hers. Therefore, this was strategic.
It was a miserable argument that would break under the faintest prodding.
Quinn turned from the window and caught me looking at her. “What?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“That was a very dragon-y nothing.”
I looked away before I smiled too much. “We’re almost there.”
The van turned through a simple iron gate onto a gravel drive.
The woods closed around us, then opened all at once into a stretch of field bordered by oak, beech, and ash.
The clearing lay beyond a low stone wall, its grass long enough to move in the breeze but cut in paths near the center.
A circle of mushrooms stood beneath a stand of birches, pale caps clustered in an uneven ring.
Sunlight filtered through the leaves in shifting pieces, and a narrow stream ran along the far edge, bright over stones.
Quinn went very still.
“Oh,” she said.
It was only one syllable, but it held more meaning than most people managed in paragraphs.
The driver stopped near the wall. I stepped out first, then opened the side door. Quinn remained seated for a moment, looking past me toward the clearing, one hand on Max’s collar.
“This is real?” she asked.
“Yes.” I smiled. “The property is warded.”
Max stood behind her, fully awake now.
Quinn turned to him. “I know, I know, you want to play. Best behavior until I say otherwise.”
She climbed out and let him follow. For a moment, Max stood beside the van, nose lifted, reading the place in ways I could not.
His body changed before my eyes: the fatigue easing from his posture, his tail rising, his ears finding all the distant sounds the city smothered.
Wind moved over the grass. Somewhere in the woods, a bird called twice and went silent.
Quinn unclipped his leash but kept one hand lightly on his head until his attention came back to her.
“Frei,” she said.
Max exploded into motion. There was no other word for it.
One second, he stood beside her, dignified and gray around the muzzle.
The next he was tearing across the grass, tail high, mouth open, paws throwing up clods of earth behind him.
He let out a deep, joyful bark, then sprang sideways as if surprised by his own happiness.
He ran in a wide loop around the clearing, cutting through a patch of sunlight, then doubling back toward us with a speed that made Quinn laugh from somewhere deep in her chest.
Max came racing past, close enough that the air moved against my trousers, then veered toward the trees and barked again.
Quinn pressed both hands to her mouth. “Oh, buddy.”
Her voice had changed. All her usual brightness was still there, but it had cracked open around something tender and relieved. I realized then that this wasn’t merely recreation for her. She watched Max run the way one watched someone beloved receive a thing they needed and had stopped asking for.
I was very glad I’d brought them here.
Max returned after his first circuit, carrying a stick half the length of his body.
He dropped it at my feet.
Quinn wiped her eyes quickly. “You’ve been chosen.”
“So I see.”
“Don’t disappoint him. He has standards.”
I picked up the stick and threw it.
Max chased it with the force of a dog restored to a younger version of himself.
He seized it, shook it once, then abandoned it in favor of a larger stick.
The one after that had a forked end and required negotiation through a patch of grass.
By the fourth, he had apparently identified my role as both thrower and logistical challenge supervisor.
Then he dragged over something that was less stick than narrow branch.
Quinn stared. “Maximus.”
Max dropped it and backed up, expectant.
“That is a branch, not a stick,” she told him.
He wagged.
I studied the branch. “It’s throwable.” I picked it up. It wasn’t light, but manageable. Quinn’s eyes widened as I drew my arm back.
“Don’t encourage him.”
“He’s earned an attempt.”
I threw it to the far side of the clearing. It turned poorly in the air and landed with a heavy rustle in the grass. Max bounded after it, delighted beyond reason.
Quinn let out an exasperated breath. “You’re a terrible influence.”
“I disagree.”
“He’s going to bring furniture next.”
“I doubt there’s any to be found here, but if he does, I will reassess.”
Her laugh moved through the clearing with the wind.