Page 8 of Potions & Prejudice
Veldar’s scowl deepened, the folds of his skin becoming more pronounced around his eyes and cheeks. “This is terrible customer service.”
“I can offer you a free mug of ale. I’m not buying you a damn shirt.”
“Let’s not anger the customers,” a voice said from next to me, followed by a nervous chuckle.
I looked over at Edgar, a miniature dragon I’d recently adopted, who seemed to be scared by damn near everything. The size of my hand, he rested on my shoulder—which had somehow become his favorite spot—his scaled ears perked as he watched our interaction.
Veldar slammed a hand down. “I agree with the dragon.”
“You just want me to buy you a new shirt,” I pointed out. “And I’m not going to do it. That stain is the size of my thumbnail. All you have to do is wash your shirt, and it will come out.”
Veldar’s face turned red. “You wash my shirt!”
“I’m a bartender, not a laundress,” I replied evenly.
“I can wash it!” Edgar volunteered.
“No,” both Veldar and I said at the same time. Finally, we agreed on something.
“You’re not a laundress either.” I’d adopted the dragon for a specific job, one that he was failing at so far.
“And I don’t like the look of you.” Veldar squinted at the dragon. “Those sharp talons of yours and that fire you breathe—my shirt will either be returned to me in shreds or burnt to a crisp.”
I shrugged. “Might be an improvement, actually.”
Veldar’s jaw clenched, and Edgar squeaked.
“He was just kidding,” Edgar said.
“No I wasn’t,” I said.
“Can I get another one of those dark ales?” a man called from the back, where he sat with a friend in a raised booth, three stairs leading up to their table. In response to his request, one of the mugs sitting on the shelves behind me floated into the air and straight to the barrel with the dark ale.
Ileaned over the bar. “Listen, Veldar, we both know how this goes. You complain and demand free things. I say no. You storm out and say you’re never coming back, and then you reappear the next day. Now, I do have a tavern to run, so if we could get on with the theatrics, that would be great.”
Ever since his husband had died twenty years ago, the old man had been insufferable.
Veldar threw up his arms, his pointed chin jutting out. “A pox on you.”
I mouthed the words along with him. He said them every time.
“A pox on your tavern. A pox on the dragon.”
Edgar gasped, tail curling into his side.
“I’m never stepping foot in here again!” With that, Veldar spun on his heel and stormed out.
“Glad that’s done,” I said, continuing to polish the mugs.
“He just put a pox on me.” Edgar whimpered. “What is a pox, exactly?”
“Oh, it’s nothing.” I set down a glass among the row of polished wooden tankards. “Just a curse that makes something sprout green pocks all over their body. Itchy, filled with pus, and they take a special potion to go away.”
Edgar’s eyes widened, and he looked down at his orange scales. “Witch Superior, I think I see one already forming.” He threw himself down. “Get me to the healer! This might be it for me, Draven.”
“He didn’t actually curse you.” I eyed the dragon. “First of all, that’s illegal, and second of all, that would require his wand, which he didn’t bring with him.”
Edgar stopped his wailing and sat up. “Oh, well, why didn’t you say so?”
