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A long wooden bar dominated one side of the venue, and the gleaming brass foot railing and old-style stools reminded me of something out of the old West - although the decor of the rest of the place was more shiprelated than Western-themed, with old rope ladders, furled sails, and a ship's wheel taking pride of place on the various walls.
I'd attracted plenty of attention when I'd first walked in, and I wasn't entirely sure whether it was due to the fact that I was the only female in the place, or the rather prominent scar on my forehead. Most of the men had quickly lost interest once I'd sent a few scowls their way, but the bartender - a big, swarthy man of indiscriminate age - seemed to be keeping an eye on me. While some part of me figured he simply didn't want trouble, something about it bothered me nonetheless.
Then the door to my right opened, briefly silhouetting the figure of a man. He was thick-set but tall, and his hair was a wild mix of black, blue, and green, as if some artist had spilled a palette of sea-colored paints over his head.
When my gaze met his, he nodded once, then stepped into the room.
I took another sip of Coke and waited. He weaved his way through the mess of tables and chairs, his movements deft and sure, exhibiting a fluid grace so rare in most people.
Of course, he wasn't most people. He was one of the other ones. One of the monsters.
"Angus Dougall, at your service," he said, his deep, somewhat gruff voice holding only the barest hint of a Scottish brogue. "Sorry I was so late, but there were protestors up on Mission Street and the traffic was hell. You want another drink?"
"Not at the moment, thanks. And why meet here if it was so far out of your way?"
"Because I know these parts well enough."
Implying that he felt safer here than anywhere else, I guessed. He took off a blue woolen peacoat that had seen better years and tossed it over the back of the chair opposite, then walked to the bar. He was, I thought with amusement, very much the image of a sea captain of old, complete with jaunty cap and a pipe shoved in his back pocket. His multicolored hair was wild and scraggly, his skin burned nut-brown by the sun, and his beard as unkempt as his hair. All that was missing was the parrot on his shoulder. And the wrinkles - because despite looking like an old-style sea captain, he couldn't have been any older than his mid-forties.
Only I doubt he'd ever been near a boat in his life. Sea dragons had no need for that mode of transport. Not according to Leith - a friend who was currently running a background check on Dougall. And he should know, because he was a sea dragon himself.
Angus came back with a beer in his hand and sat down. His gaze swept my face, lingering on the half-healed wound that snuck out from my hair to create a jagged line across half my forehead. Once it was fully healed, it would be barely visible, but right now it was fucking ugly.
Which was a small price to pay, considering the other option. Tears touched my eyes and I blinked them away rapidly. Now was not the time to grieve. I had far too much to do before I could give in to the pain and hurt and loss.
Angus took a sip of his beer then said, "I wasn't actually expecting you to make it today. I thought you'd been in an accident?"
Fear prickled my spine. I took a drink to ease the sudden dryness in my throat and wondered if he'd been behind the wheel of that truck. Wondered just how safe I was in this bar, even with the dozen or so strangers around us.
"I was."
"You look okay."
"I am." My fingers tightened around the glass. "Who told you about the accident?"
Certainly I hadn't mentioned it when I'd finally received my possessions from the mangled car and had given him another call. In fact, I hadn't told anyone - although that hadn't stopped Leith from ringing the hospital frantically to see if I was all right. But then, he had other methods of finding these things out.
Angus shrugged. "I saw it mentioned in the Chronicle."
If the Chronicle had run an article on the accident, why hadn't they contacted me? I was, after all, one of their reporters. But I could sense no lie in his words or in his expression, and reading a newspaper had been the last thing on my mind when I'd awoken in hospital. For all I knew, he was telling the truth. Yet there was a strange tension emanating from him, and that made me uneasy. I eased my grip a little on the glass and took a sip.
"I was also told you're draman," he continued.
Meaning someone had been checking up on me. And given the accident, that couldn't be a good thing -
especially considering I wasn't exactly popular at home. I knew for a fact that many in my clique hoarded a grudge as avidly as they collected all things shiny - which was the reason behind my original move to San Francisco.
It was entirely possible that one of those long-hoarded grudges was the reason behind Rainey's death. After all, someone had given that deep-voiced man my cell phone number, and Mom still lived within the clique's compound. She was extraordinarily trusting when it came to the dragons that she lived with and loved.
And just because I was presuming it was linked to our quest to discover the reason behind the death of Rainey's sister didn't mean that it actually was.
And if I was wrong, then Rainey would pay.
But I wasn't wrong. I felt that with every inch of my being.
"What does it matter to you what I am?" I asked, wondering if he, like many full dragons, held a grudge against those of us who weren't.
It was a sad fact that most full-bloods considered us a blight on the dragon name. In times past, it had been common practice amongst the dragon cliques to regularly cull the draman ranks. These days, such practices were outlawed by the dragon council, but I very much doubted it was done to protect us. The fact was, humans were encroaching on dragon land more and more, and mass cleansings - as they were called - were bound to attract notice sooner or later. It said something about the council's desperation to avoid human notice that they were allowing our numbers to increase.
