A Destiny of Dragons (Tales From Verania 2)

“Interrupting a dragon is a terrible thing to do,” Left said.

“When a dragon speaks, his words are pearls of wisdom that must be collected,” Right said.

“Have you ever heard a dragon speak?” I asked.

“No,” they said.

“Wow. Then I am super sorry for raining on that parade, because—”

“I have pearls of wisdom,” Kevin interrupted.

“Really,” I said, dubious. “You do. You.”

“Yes. I have them all the time!”

“Then by all means. Let’s hear one right now.”

Right and Left looked like they were about to swoon.

“Fine,” Kevin said. He sat back on his haunches and cleared his throat. “Everything shiny leadeth to distraction. Distractions leadeth to sin. Giveth the Lord Dragon your shinies and I shall relieve you of your sins. So spaketh the Lord Dragon, as handsome as he is benevolent.”

“Ooh,” Left and Right said.

I face-palmed.

This was the worst adventure ever.

IT TURNED out that pretty much everyone was enamored by the sight of Kevin, openly staring at him in awe as he walked through the city, the pathways creaking dangerously underneath his weight. They were indifferent toward Tiggy, much to his delight, and dismissive of Gary, much to his righteous anger.

But toward Ryan and me?

You would have thought we’d come to rob their women and pillage their men with the looks we were getting. For every person that squealed at the sight of the dragon, there was another person who looked like they were getting ready to junk-punch Ryan or me, or possibly even both of us at the same time. It wasn’t something I was used to, this open hostility. While by no means universally beloved, I thought at least I had the will of the people at my back. And certainly, the dashing and immaculate Ryan Foxheart did, no matter where he went. Aside from that display by my archnemesis Lady Tina DeSilva and the protesters, we usually were respected, for the most part.

Except, apparently, in Mashallaha.

It wasn’t until we’d gotten halfway through the city and I’d seen a man physically hold back a woman before she threw a clay vase at my head that I had to ask.

“So,” I said to Left. “How are you?”

“Fine,” he said, rather stiffly.

“That’s good. I like your… spear. It’s very sharp.”

“Thank you. I made it myself.”

“That’s nice. I’m so glad we talked about this. Question.”

“If you must.”

“I must. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there seems to be a large amount of people here that seem to want to chop off my legs and shove them up my ass.”

That didn’t even seem to faze him in the slightest. “Vivid,” Left said. “And accurate.”

“Uh-huh. Any—any specific reason for that, you think?”

He turned to glare at me again. “Surely you jest.”

“I’m not jesting,” I said. “I barely jest at all.”