Never wake a Dragon (on hold)

5. part II - conscience

His head hurt. The weird discussion with Kyung had left a distinct impression, but he wasn't certain exactly what that impression was. He couldn't put it into words. At least not words that felt familiar. He walked along Drottninggatan, wrapped up in thoughts that kept him from seeing much of his surroundings. There were enough people around to make him invisible in the crowd, and since people unknowingly avoided him, he could walk straight ahead without bumping shoulders.

The ridiculous job title was the least of his problems, but he couldn't stop thinking about it. Messenger. Couldn't the dragon at least have picked something that sounded a bit important? It was a title that placed him at the bottom of the hierarchy. Even the nasty secretary could send him on errands if he failed to avoid her. It made no sense. Nothing made sense. The dragon's presence in Stockholm was a clusterfuck, and somehow he'd ended up in the middle of it all.

There was nothing to like about the situation, which should have been enough of a motivation to relocate. He could pack his belongings and board a plane to an island somewhere in the Pacific. No one would bother him, and he'd live the next few years completely safe from trouble. Maybe he could convince Nev to move as well. That way, they'd both be free to live their lives surrounded by nothing but pleasure and tropical warmth. He stuck his cold fingers inside his pockets. Stockholm had very few advantages beyond the long hours of darkness during winter.

The idea of an island was nothing but a pleasant dream, however. Nev was unlikely to say yes, and he didn't exactly see himself happy with prolonged isolation. Besides, he'd fled most of his life and had no wish to start all over again.

A door flew open on his right, and two drunk women wobbled out from the pub with bright smiles on their faces. A loud buzz of voices from inside, coupled with some tolerable music, drew his attention. Perhaps he could do with a diversion or two. His beast needed to be fed, or something like that.

He crossed the threshold and squeezed past a few other guests to reach the bar disk. Any other night he would have opted for a drink, but his mind was already scrambled enough. Instead, he ran his fingers along the polished wood, touching every indent, every mark left by countless guests. The pub had been around for a while, dressed in a traditional British style which was a weird contrast. The British did have a more vibrant pub culture than the Swedes, though, so maybe that was the reason. Or maybe the Swedes had simply watched too much TV.

A woman with bleached hair and eyelashes too long to be real sat beside him, twirling the black straw in her cream colored drink. He could sense that she prepared herself to talk, and for once he didn't mind the prospect. Anything to take his mind off Kyung.

She released the straw between her red lips and eyed him seductively. "I sure hope you're not too young to be here?"

He almost wanted to laugh at the question. He'd damned his young appearance on more than one occasion, but at last he could get away with behaving like a reckless adolescent once in a while. He had no recollection of his childhood, but he knew he'd been around thirteen when his dear parents had decided to have some fun at the Salem witch trials, or at least that's what they'd told him. Most pinned him to be around twenty, which was a few centuries off.

"I'm old enough," he replied.

This didn't happen all that often. People could stare at him from a distance, but too close, their subconscious began to warn them to back away. Apparently this woman either sought danger or she was simply more intoxicated than he'd thought.

She leaned closer. "I'm Helene."

The bartender interrupted, "Can I get you anything?" The guy wore a knowing smile. Perhaps Helene was a regular who liked to prey on new, young customers.