Page 105 of The Deer and the Dragon
A tiny spark shot through me when she touched me, and I recoiled as if a snake had bitten me. Attempting to recover, I laughed awkwardly. “Static,” I mumbled while sliding into the chair on the opposite side of her desk. Over one shoulder, I glanced out the floor-to-ceiling windows to see the parking lot. I swallowed at my discomfort at realizing she’d positioned herself to monitor the comings and goings of clients. I would have assumed anyone of importance would want to observe the gardens, fountains, or trees. I didn’t let my eyes linger, though I caught the darkened reflection of the BMW’s windshield and said a silent prayer into the void that neither Caliban nor Azrames had been spotted.
“Mmm,” she responded calmly, smile still playing on the corners of her mouth. The bright smell of peaches and apricots wafted from the lobby into her office as Juliet roses filled the space. She eased back into her chair and said, “Why don’t you tell me what brings you in today, Merit Finnegan? Big fan, by the way.”
“Thank you.” I did my best to return the smile, whether or not she was just being polite. “I’m glad you’ve liked the books. The next one will focus on South American pantheons and deities. Its primary anchor will be Brazilian lore.”
“Oh, I know.” She continued to give the sort of smile that looked like it bloomed from a secret. She flitted a hand to her bookshelf. Sharing her wall of framed Ivy League diplomas was a set of well-decorated shelves. Beside numerous medical texts were the spines of my novels.
It would have been disingenuous to hide my surprise, so I allowed the shock to shine through. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a fan,” I said.
“Who doesn’t love ancient worlds?” she asked with warmth. She folded one arm over the other as she leaned on her desk with feline regalness. With the conversational tilt of her head, she asked, “Any plans for book four?”
I nodded, dipping my toes in the water. “I’m heading east; I’m just not sure how far east I want to go. The Shinto gods, maybe? Or perhaps something in the Middle East…closer to Mesopotamia. Of course, I’m nowhere near ready,” I said. “I’d need to spend hours in libraries before I would feel confident to tackle the lore. I’m tragically ill-informed on many of the world’s religions.”
“Religion,” she replied, the word almost a purr. “Not mythology. How curious.”
I wasn’t sure whether she was pleased or suspicious. I dared a glance at the stoic woman posturing in the corner, but she did not react. I kept my tone light, forcing myself to stay relaxed as I monitored her for a response. She offered me nothing.
“Truly,” I went on, “I had it easy with my first book. My maternal family is from Norway, so I grew up with most of the mythology and lore. My mother’s side has always been deeply interested in Norse mythology, though perhaps we’ll never know why. Interweaving my lived experience was half of the success. I should have dedicated the book to her.”
I thought of Caliban’s warning as I saw Ayona relax with an almost imperceptible ease. I hadn’t realized her smile was stiff until the microscopic shift in her eyes, in the corners of her mouth, in the way she held her shoulders. Yes, bringing up Nordic blood had worked in my favor. I wonder what it was about me, if she could smell the same sea and pine that I smelled on Fauna or if was something else entirely.
“Your maternal line, you say?” she said. “That explains the deeply Irish surname, I suppose.”
I laughed as if I were on a morning talk show, slapping on a forged ease and gabbing inauthentically with the host. “I don’t think my father has a drop of Irish blood, though who’s to say? He’s a sixth-generation American, and no one on that side of the family can verify a country of origin.”
It was a fictional backstory, of course. My father’s family was from Oslo. But she didn’t need to know that.
“Well,” she said with the cooing voice of a mourning dove as she changed the subject, “parents are an excellent segue as to what led you to a fertility clinic. Why don’t you tell me what’s brought you in today, Merit?”
I wished I had the ability to freeze time. Fear was going to get the best of me if I couldn’t calm down and look for answers. Anxiety clenched my muscles, hitched my breathing, and tightened my eyes. My palms grew clammy as I wanted a moment to gather my thoughts, to ask about the wildly intimidating, shockingly gorgeous bodyguard in the corner of the room, to examine my surroundings without looking suspicious. It didn’t seem fair that I was expected to answer her questions, to think rationally, to have my wits about me while flanked by a tiny army of gorgeous women. It was with a chill of horror that I realized the doctor’s personal Soul Eater might remain outside the door, triangulating me between immortals.
A solution came to me all at once.
She was a client, and I was her very expensive date.
I decided to look at her like she was Josh, her office was the overpriced omakase restaurant, and her degrees were the Rolex watch. She was used to having people fall at her feet, to succumbing to her every whim, to her worship. I may not know the right or wrong moves with ancient Phoenician goddesses, but I’d learned how to put myself on equal playing fields with powerful people.
I removed Doctor Ayona entirely and replaced her with the open-mouthed chewing of my last terrible date. I allowed her desk to become the table, the comforting sounds of the luxurious office to transform into the too-loud mastication of the man who’d mixed wasabi directly into his soy sauce. Her designer dress, her supple curves, her hypnotizing face became little more than another rich, mediocre John. I pictured Josh snapping at the waitress for the bill. I added a few flourishingdetails, like leaving one of his buttons undone, a piece of sesame in his teeth, and the annoyance I’d felt at wasting my night on a date when I could have been home watchingFire and Swords.
I wasn’t sure what it was that the goddess Astarte had loved about escorts, but perhaps it was this—our ability to slip into skins, to find an advantage, to become peerless. After all, Dagon had said I was exactly her type.
Fear evaporated as I eased into my chair and spoke to Josh.
“I love what I do,” I said casually. “I work from home. I could support a family of ten if I wanted. And I’ve always loved children.”
Two out of three was a pretty good truth-to-lie ratio, I told myself.
“Besides,” I added, “why should I need a man to accomplish the things I want in life?”
There, now we had three out of four truths…mostly. Caliban wasn’t a man, after all. Not really.
She smiled again at that. My gaze flitted to the corner of the room at the unsmiling, statue-still figure, then back to the doctor. The doctor’s smile faltered and she half-turned toward the bodyguard, then stopped herself, returning to me. She cleared her throat and bent to fish something from a drawer within her desk. She procured a thin, glossy binder and slid it to me.
“This is for our elite clients,” she said. “You may not be old money, but you certainly are special.”
I fought my eyebrows’ desire to pull together in confusion as I flipped open to the first page only to realize she’d slid me a book of suitors—of semen. The men in the book were the finest humankind had to offer, fashioned after Adonis himself. Their perfect, disarming smiles, their flawless skin, their postures, their pedigrees.
I paged through the first three.
