'Til Dragons Do Us Part (Never Deal with Dragons) Read online

  “I am getting bigger. But sorry, Aunt Vanni. No chats. Me and Mr. Ruff are digging holes in the fence! But first I’m thirsty.”

  Amused, I watched as the little girl chugged the remainder of a glass of water, and then made a beeline toward the backyard, she and her puppy almost tripping her as they tried to gallop through the living room at the same time. Judging by the amount of dirt covering both dog and child, they were more accurately digging under the fence.

  I stepped aside as Simon entered the house behind me, sliding the grubby trucker hat from his head and tossing it into a large box filled with similar paraphernalia. Another box sat just behind it, packed near to bursting with newspaper-wrapped treasures. I turned around and raised a brow. He had definitely lined up another job. Jeanie was preparing for a trip to storage.

  She had at least a half a dozen warehouses throughout Europe, and another dozen or so sprinkled throughout the Americas. When we took a gig, the first thing she’d do was look up the neighborhood closest to our job, and rent houses or apartments nearby. That way, when I flew us all into town, she’d simply fill the places with pre-purchased necessities, and we’d pack them up later when the gig was complete. It was like living in a builder’s staged model, but it worked. And with me providing ninety percent of the family’s transatlantic travel, it sure beat flying with boxes of crap strapped to me.

  We turned the corner into the kitchen, where Jeanie was busy stirring a large pot filled with something that smelled divine. I waited until Simon had placed a smacking kiss on her lips, then wrapped her up in a hug.

  “Smells great, Jeanie.”

  “Thanks. See, aren’t you glad you agreed to stay the night tonight? I knew the Emma excuse would get you here.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yep, poor Emma missed her daddy, that’s for sure. She hasn’t let loose of his pant-leg yet.”

  I pointed to the backyard, where Emma’s rump was the only thing visible as she scooped dirt out of the not-so-small hole she and Mr. Ruff had created.

  Jeanie grinned. “Hey, I knew if I didn’t make something up, you’d be stubborn and drive all the way back to your place alone. I’d rather you give yourself another day to heal up. Besides, I was hoping that you could help me finish up that side work for Bernie.”

  “The engravings? No way. You know I’m terrible at the art stuff.”

  “But this is metalworking. Easy. And he pays really well. I’d let you have any new projects that come in.”

  “Thanks, but the counterfeit biz isn’t for me.”

  She shrugged. “Suit yourself. Simon told me about the trouble on the job. A hot meal and a hot tub will do wonders for you.”

  I would have argued, but Jeanie had a point. She was older than me by only three years, but since she’d married Simon, she’d happily taken on the role of nagging mother. At least with me.

  And if I were honest, I didn’t mind. Simon and Jeanie were as close to family as I’d ever had, and I wouldn’t trade them for anything. Simon had met her a few years back, before we’d made a name for ourselves as specialists in very large or heavy items. He’d been posing as an artist so he’d have an excuse to get into the home of our mark.

  That particular dragon had been prone to offering regular tours of his personal collection as a way to irritate the museum folks he’d originally “acquired” the art from—by force, of course. The painting we needed was one on display, so Simon donned a smock and joined the showing.

  Most of the merchandise we dealt with had been originally owned or overseen by museums. All of that changed with the discovery of dragons. The Louvre, the Smithsonian, the Vatican—all of these structures had fallen during World War III. The dragons, as they were prone to do, wasted no time in scooping up these treasures and integrating them into their personal “hoards.” With our cities and political systems destroyed, humanity hadn’t really placed retrieval of paintings at the top of their to-do list. They’d been too busy trying to survive and reassemble some sort of order.

  And while the oldest and strongest of the dragons—seven of them in total—had set up domains on pretty much every continent and named themselves dragon lords, for the most part they were willing to leave humans alone, provided these humans didn’t try to interfere with them in any way.

  In fact, there were some humans who actually worked in the homes of the wealthier dragons. Jeanie had been one such human, working as a cook in the kitchen of the house Simon was casing. She’d accidentally walked into the room while Simon was removing the painting in question from the wall. She’d waited until he’d successfully navigated the multiple security features in place before tapping him on the shoulder and telling him that she would have been happy to turn the damn thing off if only he’d asked her at dinner.

  Turned out, Jeanie’s employer had made a remark earlier in the day that no matter how little she’d cooked his meat, it always tasted like ashes when compared to the raw version. He’d then gone on about how she was only there because he’d heard that she was the best, and that he’d gone out of his way to quash any offers of employment that came her way, just because he liked to be known as the dragon who had the best of everything.

  Jeanie, who had indeed applied at many prestigious establishments before settling for dragon-duty, was furious when she found out what he’d done.

  She’d promptly packed her bags and helped Simon smuggle the painting—frame and all—out of the house in a produce truck owned by one of her friends. Six months later, they were married, and little Emma had been born a year after that.

  The thump of a bowl touching the dining table pulled me back to the present, and I meandered over to the back door so I could let Emma know it was time to wash up.

  By the time we’d all gorged ourselves on Jeanie’s spaghetti, I was ready to hear about the new job. And Simon was more than ready to tell me.

  “Savannah. Tell me where you think Cavenaugh Acquisitions ranks amongst our competitors.”

  I twisted the stem of my wine glass and eyed him. Where was he going with this? “For our skillset? Top of the list.”

  “And based on perception? Street cred, if you will?”

  I grimaced. We were good at our jobs. Very good. Repeat business from our clients proved that. But the fact was, there was still one enterprise that consistently beat us out of the very best contracts. The thief called himself Prometheus, and always managed to impress clients with the vast array of technology he had at his disposal.

  We’d never actually met the guy, but Simon hated him with a burning passion. Especially since we’d somehow wound up on his radar a few months ago.

  Now don’t get me wrong, today’s harness mishap notwithstanding, Simon was a tech genius. If it had a gear or a circuit board, he could make it work. But we had much thinner margins than Prometheus, and therefore a much smaller budget.

  During the war, before the dragons had even been “discovered” as an unintended by-product of genetic splicing experiments, the warring governments had developed and deployed a series of devices capable of emitting regular electromagnetic pulses from the air for an indefinite period of time. When the dragons interrupted the war by making themselves known, those EMP devices were left in place, happily knocking out any electronics in range. Which was basically all electronics. As a result, anything containing circuits tended to have a short term of use, and the longer the circuit lasted, the more expensive it was.

  We were stuck in the classic catch-22. Without the big contracts, we couldn’t afford electronic bells and whistles. And without the bells and whistles, we had a hard time landing the big contracts.

  So, though it pained me to admit it, we weren’t sitting at the top of the art theft food chain. But we were well on our way.

  “Based on perception and street cred, we’re number two.” I paused for a moment. “A solid number two,” I couldn’t help but add.

  “Number two is better than number one. It’s bigger.” And with that pronouncement, Emma pointed her fo
rk in my direction and smiled proudly.

  I looked to Jeanie, grinning. “Girl’s got a point, there.”

  “Yes, she does,” Simon answered. He turned to Emma. “But what if I told you that daddy got Aunt Vanni a really big contract. One whose completion bonus is way bigger than two?”

  “Oh, bigger than two is better, Aunt Vanni. Do it.”

  I laughed. “Boss says let’s do it. I’m in. What’s in Tulsa worth stealing?”

  * * *

  Dang. I’d been in some pretty awe-inspiring houses before, but the one owned by Lord Nir Relobu, dragon lord of North America, took the cake. In human form, I stepped from the clunky car I’d been allotted—nice ones were so rare since the war that anything that was even remotely reliable tended to draw attention—and put a hand up to shield my eyes from the sun as I took in the view. The mansion was built from massive quantities of stone, and sported no less than six turrets, each and every one of them manned with at least two dragons and a handful of human guards. More dragons flew overhead, their wings casting shadows across the white flagstone driveway.

  On the surface, Relobu’s security team was beyond impressive. Which made the fact that I’d blithely driven through the gate with no appointment and no ID a curiosity, to say the least. Why waste all this money hiring dragons and humans to sit on your roof, then simply open the gate for anyone? Was the dragon lord so certain that his rooftop guards would keep the place safe, that he didn’t feel the need to extend that protection to the gate? I didn’t know, but I was here to find out.

  As I approached the front door, I made a catalog of the cameras mounted to the mansion, mentally calculating the distance between each. I’d check with Simon to be sure, but it looked like whoever installed them had done their homework, and we wouldn’t be able to count on any blind spots on our way in and out.

  Before I’d even had a chance to knock, the door swung open to reveal an elderly gentleman clothed in a sharp gray suit and tie. “Hello, and welcome to Relobu Manor. You’re here to inspect the furnishings?”

  “I...uh...” His question caught me off-guard. It wasn’t often that my marks invited me into their home to study the best way to procure their valuables. Usually I had to come up with some sort of cover. But hey, I was nothing if not flexible. “Um, yes. Yes I am.”

  As the butler turned, I caught sight of the back of his coat. Full tails. I wished I’d picked something other than a pair of ratty jeans and flip-flops to put on this morning.

  “Come in, come in. Can I get you anything to drink?”

  I couldn’t help but stare as the man closed the door behind me. “No, thank you. I think I’m good.”

  Was I good? I wasn’t sure. This was by far the oddest household I’d ever encountered.

  “Well then, let’s get you down to the viewing hall. I understand Miss Banks is considering a mixed-species meal? You ladies are obviously the experts, but if you don’t mind my saying so, I’m not sure that’s such a stellar idea. Dragons can be rather messy around dinner, and with everyone wearing their best outfits, I’m not sure it’s worth the risk. Don’t you agree?”

  “I absolutely do.” I gave the butler a wide smile, and hoped it didn’t look as crazy as I felt. Mixed-species meal? What in the world was going on?

  We started down the hall, the gentleman keeping up a steady stream of meaningless chatter about the aforementioned Miss Banks and her lovely friend Miss Jenski. Every once in a while, I contributed a nod or a smile in his direction while I tried to figure out how the butler thought I was connected to Myrna Banks.

  Even I—a girl who almost never opened a newspaper—knew who she was. Myrna had made a splash when she, a human dragonspeaker, had signed on for a job with Lord Relobu to help negotiate a deal between Lord Relobu and his Chinese equivalent, Lord Hian Puo. At the time, it had been the first instance in which a dragon had asked for human help to settle a dragon-to-dragon dispute.

  Up until then, dragons had been more than happy to hire dragonspeakers from their local DRACIM offices—Dragon Relations, Arbitration, and Cooperative Interspecies Mediation—when they needed to settle something with a non-dragonspeaking human, but they had always maintained a very hard stance against humans “meddling” into dragon-only affairs any more so than was strictly necessary.

  Myrna’s involvement had led to two other firsts—the first trial and conviction of a dragon lord for attempted mass murder, and the first public romantic relationship between a human and a dragon. Myrna’s marriage to her boyfriend Trian Chobardan was scheduled for early next month at The Silo Event Center, an old granary converted into a multipurpose event center, and there was already talk of security concerns due to the large number of people out there, dragon and human alike, who didn’t like the idea of cross-species relationships.

  I, obviously, applauded their bravery. Until Trian had gone public with the fact that he was a dragon morph, I’d believed myself to be the only one in existence. When Simon had first told me of the news and handed me the morning’s paper, I’d sat, marveling at the sense of...relief that had washed over me. Until that point, I’d never realized just how isolated I’d been as the only dragon morph I knew. Heck, until Trian had used the word in an article, I hadn’t even known what to call myself.

  As a result, I’d made a point to keep up on the news surrounding Trian and his wedding, but I was pretty sure my semi-stalker status didn’t afford me the amount of familiarity I was being treated to by the butler. Usually the stalker thing was a one-way street.

  “I assume you’ll want to be left alone to take some measurements?” The butler typed in a series of numbers on a small keypad, then hit a larger button on the wall, causing a pair of massive doors to swing open, revealing the jackpot of all dragon treasure hoards.

  Jewelry, statues, paintings, exquisite wall-sized tapestries and antique furniture had been meticulously labeled and displayed along a meandering path that stretched the entire length of the enormous room. I mean, this single space had to take up the entirety of the mansion’s west wing.

  My guide didn’t seem to notice my shock. “I’ll leave you here with a list of the items Lord Relobu has set aside for Miss Banks’ use. As requested, the majority of these items are quite well known, and should assist in creating the impression she is aiming for, especially among the guests who have a reasonable knowledge of art and antiquities. You should be able to find them all here in the room, starting on your left and moving clockwise. Should you have any questions, simply press this button to reach me via intercom.” He handed me a sheaf of paper, directed my attention to the intercom controls on the wall, and then gave me a short bow before leaving me alone in the room.

  “Holy Mother of...” Simon was going to go nuts when I told him about this. The confusion behind my warm welcome forgotten, I started down the stretch of carpet, scanning the papers kindly provided by Relobu’s butler. The list of items read like a museum exhibit announcement, each artist’s name and masterpiece topped by the next, and soon my head was swimming with Monets, Picassos, Mings and Winstons.

  Like most art collectors in this day and age, our client was looking for something rare or famous. Preferably both. The painting he’d settled on, Bright Seasons, fully qualified on both counts. The five-by-eight-foot canvas was one of only two works completed by Bernard Tofegaard, and depicted a very colorful and somewhat idealized version of the merging of the English and Scottish Parliaments. Tofegaard, a shining star in the early 18th century art scene, was tragically killed by a gang of thieves in a dark London alley on the night of his twenty-second birthday.

  And I’d learned from experience that nothing made a good piece of art more valuable than a sad backstory. The fact that Bernard’s first painting, Dark Shadows, had been destroyed when the National Gallery in London had burned during the last world war only helped increase the value of his surviving piece.

  I skipped to the second sheet and scanned the items, wondering whether I’d get lucky and find the Tofega
ard on Relobu’s list.

  But no. I saw no mention of Bernard Tofegaard. “Well,” I muttered to myself, “it wouldn’t have been fair if it were that easy.”

  Simon had managed to snag us the contract—he’d been crowing about the fact that we’d finally managed to beat Prometheus on a bid for what felt like forever—but the victory had come with a very, very short window of time in which to deliver.

  It was too bad. Being handed the piece of art we were searching for would have gone a long way toward meeting our deadline. I made a quick pass through the room just in case the canvas had accidentally been left off the list, and then turned back toward the exit. With no small twinge of regret, I left the room and started my search for a British Parliament.

  Chapter Four

  I’d finally located the group of politicians on the wall of the formal banquet hall, and I was inspecting the frame to see how long it might take me to pop it out for transport, when someone cleared their throat behind me.

  “Is there something I can help you with?”

  I turned to find a dark-haired man leaning against one of the heavy wooden columns, surveying me with mild curiosity. His arms were crossed loosely over his chest, causing the buttons of his dress shirt to strain as the fabric stretched across his wide frame.

  “Nope. Just enjoying the art.” I turned back to the painting, hoping he’d simply wander away to find another use for his time.

  No such luck.

  I watched from the corner of my eye as the man shifted up from his spot against the column, but instead of continuing through the room, he moved closer, out of my line of sight, until he stood just behind me as I pretended to admire the painting.

  Goosebumps started to form on the back of my neck.

  “A Tofegaard fan, are you?” He was standing so close I felt my hair move as he spoke, and I stifled the urge to fidget.