Chapter 2
Blue Lotuses
Rakan
The vault sits two hundred feet under the surface of the city. The lift down is a private one, walled in living rock, and it’s been running on the same magic since the bank’s founding.
I don’t have business at Lindwurm today. Sigurd does. I came down with him because the alternative was staying alone with my own thoughts, and I am avoiding those.
By my side, Sigurd leans against the wall, slowly tapping a tentacle against his lip. “There’s something on your mind today.”
He sees right through me. Of course he does, because how could he not? He’s my oldest friend, the kraken who couldn’t be put off even if I were to wish him away. Most days, it’s reassuring. Today, not so much. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Sigurd shoots me a disbelieving glance but doesn’t comment on my obvious lie. But I won’t get away with it. He’s bound to pounce on me again once his business with the bank is settled.
The lift doors open onto a stone chamber the size of a cathedral. Vasili Drachen is at the far end, on his hands and knees, sorting a chest of uncut emeralds with his clawed hand.
He’s not a small dragon. He stands taller than I do, broader through the shoulders than Sigurd.
There’s a leather apron tied over his suit, and a peacock feather serves him as a quill.
I know for a fact that this particular breed of bird has been extinct for nine hundred years.
But that’s never been an obstacle for the dragons of Lindwurm Capital.
He greets us simply, as is the dragon way. “Rakan. Sigurd. Well met.”
“Well met, Vasili.” Sigurd stops by a column of stacked ingots, watching the dragon work with the same patience he brings to most things. “I trust we didn’t catch you at a bad time.”
“I always have time for my oldest customers,” Vasili replies.
He holds an emerald up to the light and sets it in a small wooden tray to his left.
He makes a small note on the parchment floating by his side.
“But I’m afraid I’ll have to multitask today.
Three of my appraisers have been off this week with the flu.
Not to mention I’ve begun to suspect that, even hale, they couldn’t tell a flawless stone from a rudimentary fake. ”
I cross the vault and watch him as he carefully moves through his hoard. If I wanted to, I could easily sort everything in this vault with a thought. But I don’t, because dragon magic is on an entirely different level. Even djinn don’t dare to meddle in their affairs.
“If your staff is incompetent, you should fire them,” I say instead.
“I’ll fire them on Monday. It’s more satisfying to do it after they’ve had a full weekend to relax.”
I almost smile. No, he won’t. Vasili has been the head of Lindwurm Capital for nine centuries. He’s one of the very few creatures in the world whom I treat with something resembling formality. He prefers the old courtesies, and I prefer to indulge him.
He’s also much kinder than he looks. Knowing him, he’ll be giving those employees of his a raise, just to make sure they recover from their flu.
But I’m not here to argue with Vasili about his quirks. I’m also not here for myself today. Sigurd is. He steps forward and sets a slim leather folio on the lid of a closed chest beside Vasili.
“One of my ships went down off the cape last month,” Sigurd says. “The insurers have paid out on the hull and the cargo.”
Vasili sets down his quill and takes the folio in his clawed hands. He doesn’t open it. He doesn’t need to. “A clean settlement, from what I saw of it.”
“The hull and the cargo, yes,” Sigurd replies. “I’m here about the crew. Forty-one of them. The standard policy doesn’t cover what their families are owed, and I won’t have it settled at standard.”
Vasili looks at him for a long moment, his slitted eyes seeing far too much. He understands what Sigurd is saying without it having to be spoken.
Some things matter not just because the law enforces them as the norm. We, as monsters, remember the days of old as humans never will. We don’t live in a kind world, not even now. But once upon a time, someone was kind enough to build a road between humans and monsters. That has worth.
“What did you have in mind, Mr. Eiriksson?” Vasili asks Sigurd.
“Pensions for the spouses, lifetime, indexed,” Sigurd replies. “Education for any children under twenty, through whatever level they want to take it. A lump sum on top, generous enough that no one has to argue about it later.”
Vasili nods slowly. He doesn’t ask about numbers. He knows, by now, that Sigurd doesn’t hoard wealth. Not as a dragon would. “It will take a week to set up the trusts properly. Two, if you want them administered through three jurisdictions for the families abroad.”
“Two weeks is fine.”
Vasili opens the folio and turns it toward Sigurd. He hands him the fountain pen—one that’s probably almost as old as this bank is. Sigurd signs, and the paper flashes.
“Done,” Vasili says.
Sigurd stands with the pen in his hand a moment longer than necessary, reading the line above his signature.
The ink is still wet. His handwriting is more precise than it needs to be.
Sigurd learned to write in Norse runes, and even after all this time, he’s never quite shaken his dislike for the Roman alphabet.
I find myself thinking of different handwriting. A cheap black marker, absently jotting down the curls of an R in swift, efficient motions.
A thought slips in, uninvited. Will Iris ever get over her dislike for me?
It’s the kind of thought a creature like me shouldn’t be capable of having. It should be harmless. Instead, it solidifies… into a paper coffee cup.
The damning cup manifests right on the chest next to Vasili’s tail. The rim is crumpled where a hand closed around it. My hand, sadly. The cardboard sleeve has slid down one side. A name is written there in black marker. Rakan.
Never in three thousand years of existence have my powers gotten away from me in such an embarrassing way. I take a slow breath and try not to let it get to me.
Iris Beckett is a human I’ve known for less than twenty-four hours. This is ridiculous.
Sigurd crosses the floor of the vault and leans over the cup. Vasili eyes the anomaly with a blank expression that says more than words ever could. “That is new,” Sigurd remarks. “And very interesting.”
I glare at the offending object, and it dissipates into thin air. “It’s nothing.”
Vasili picks up his quill again and returns to writing on his parchment. He’s giving us time to talk, but he’s definitely listening.
“Rakan.” Sigurd shifts his weight, and one of his tentacles drags over the floor of the vault. “That cup appeared on its own.”
“I’ve been managing it since yesterday afternoon.”
“Managing it,” he repeats, utterly unconvinced.
The cup reappears on the lid of the chest from which I just removed it. Sigurd looks at it. Vasili’s quill stops moving, and the corner of his scaled mouth twitches.
I flick my fingers again, and the cup vanishes. But I have a feeling this isn’t the last I’ve seen of it.
I turn back to Vasili, who has completely dropped the pretense of indifference. “There’s one more thing. I need two dozen blue lotuses. Prepared in a bouquet.”
Vasili meets my gaze and arches his brow. “It can be arranged. The nymph Lotis owes Lindwurm two favours and has been overdue on both for the better part of a century. I’ll wake her. May I ask the purpose of the acquisition, or would you prefer I file it under the usual discretion?”
“It’s a gift. For a human woman. I’d prefer that to remain between us.”
Behind me, Sigurd goes unnaturally still. There are only so many things a djinn can’t accomplish simply by willing it. For me to take the time to requisition a gift through the bank… I know he’ll be concerned.
“I see,” Vasili says, nodding. “It will take an hour, no more.”
I let myself meet his eyes for a beat longer than I usually do. “As always, Lindwurm Capital doesn’t disappoint. Thank you, Vasili.”
He gives me something that, on another creature’s face, would be a smile. “My pleasure, Rakan. It’s been a long time since you’ve asked me for anything that wasn’t routine. I find I have missed it.”
He returns to his silence, and just like that, the conversation is over. Dragons don’t like to dwell on goodbyes, and Vasili is no different.
As I make my way out of the vault, Sigurd joins me. “Tell me you’re not actually doing this. You can’t possibly be considering giving a human that kind of gift.”
I narrow my eyes at him, and smoke, seeping from my skin, curls around our feet. “And why not?”
“Rakan… Humans have no use for magical flowers. Lotuses from a nymph? Please. You know what would be easier? A scarf.”
Easier. I can’t help but snort. “I don’t need to take the easy way out. I’m a djinn.”
“Make it a cashmere scarf, then,” Sigurd replies, his voice drier than the desert I once came from. “A nice one, but still sensible. The succubi imported new stock from India. Surely you can find something better from them.”
As much as I appreciate my friend, I’m really not interested in the ins and outs of his business.
Oceanic import trade is Sigurd’s thing, not mine.
And scarves are definitely not enough for the message I’m trying to send.
“Iris has no use for succubus wares, and she has no need for scarves. But every woman loves flowers. This will work.”
Sigurd shakes his head in exasperation. I don’t wait for him to chastise me again. Instead, I will myself out of the vault, away from the bank—and closer to her.
The next day
There’s a particular type of grinding irritation that only children can ever create. They always… wish for things. Their wishes don’t have the power to move the universe, too light, too trivial. But they still frustrate me, and I can never blame them for it.
In an ideal world, I could have avoided a child’s wish while carrying a bouquet of magical flowers. But this isn’t an ideal world.
“No! Mother, I want the chocolate one!”