To Bind a Dragon - Dragon Affairs, Book 1

03. Witch of Tides

— Hel —

She'd done it this time. She'd finally said everything she wanted.

Hel sighed and let her shoulders relax. The night was chilly and filled with aromas inside the Den; the scent of orange blossoms and night dames made the scales of Hel's inner dragon crinkle as it stretched in pleasure. Hel tried to focus her attention on the enemy beside her, but her draconic instincts chose to purr at the familiar calmness of her home.

She was furious after escaping the Hunters and arguing with Mother again. Hel thought that the taste of the Dragon Breath on her tongue—ash, gasoline, and the spicy, sour kokumi of fire—would last the whole night.

It didn't.

When she stepped outside and took a deep breath, she could barely feel the taste anymore. Even the old wound on the right side of her head, always radiating that insufferable, needle-like pain, had decided to leave her in peace tonight. She wished she knew why.

Hel sighed.

The only headache, thorn on her backside—and many other idioms—that still remained had a name and walked a few steps behind her.

"I said my name is Olívia," the witch repeated. "Or Oli. Not 'witch.'"

"Still don't care," Hel grumbled, shoving her hands into her pockets. She found a heart-shaped lollipop inside, now half-crushed and covered with the blood from the Hunters' pins. "I'll take you to Dr. Rafir, and then I'm out. Good luck finding a place to sleep."

"Okay."

She tossed the lollipop into a nearby trash can. "You came here 'cause you wanted to, so now you can deal with it."

"All right," the witch said. "I'll do my best."

Hel frowned. She expected more of a fight from the witch.

It would make this situation a little less frustrating at least. She balled her hands, the tips of her fingers turning blood-red. She still couldn't believe Hipátia had the gall of ordering her to take care of this woman. Didn't she have any shred of affection for her? Hipátia was her mother; Hel thought she wouldn't push her to deal with Sourcerers ever again. Not after last time....

Hel schooled her expression. She couldn't do anything right now. Not yet.

Shit.

She'd have to keep the witch alive, at least for now. At least until her plan was in place.

"To the left here," Hel said.

The dark, heavily guarded streets that led to Hipátia's house opened to a crowded square. There was music and booths of food and drinks, and one of the new Captains stood on the stage, singing a song or another about a dragon and his prince.

"Oh. Is this the soirée?" The witch fished for a pack of wet tissues in her handbag and used it to clean the splatters of blood from her face. She ran a hand through her hair as if trying to give it some shape, then plucked the golden lid of a mauve lipstick and spread it over her lips.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Making myself presentable, I suppose?" She rushed past Hel and blocked her way. "How do I look?"

Hel sighed and truly looked at her for the first time.

The witch's light brown skin had pockets of freckles all over her face and the back of her hands. Unlike Hel expected, she also had a healthy tan on her nose and cheeks—Hel always thought witches stayed in their bogs, reading their cursed books and planning something evil, rather than sunbathing. Hazel eyes, short brown hair, and pouty lips that weren't too full nor remotely thin. Hel's gaze traveled downward, and her mouth watered. There was a gap between the front buttons in her shirt thanks to the way the heavy duffel bag tugged at her robes, and...shit. Peeking from the gap was the delicate curve of a lacy bra and a dainty beauty mark just above it that—she looked away.