The Walls of Jericho

Puzzles

In a panicked frenzy, I vault off the lounger. Abandoning my belongings where they are, I race across the pool deck to the stairs up to the house level.

Help me understand.  Help me understand.  Help me understand.  Help me understand. 

“No running by the pool, Jillie!” Mr. Adriani shouts, emerging from the outdoor bathroom wrapped in a towel. With my head spinning like it is, I barely process that, this time, he’s called me ‘Jillie’, or bother to wonder who the hell that might have been.

Help me understand.  Help me understand.  Help me understand.

I skitter to a halt at the sliding pocket door into the great room and cringe, my upper lip curling up. Things I could have gone my whole life without—that picture in my head of my demented charge. It’s my fault, of course, for failing to specify where to wrap the towel.

Seriously, I wing the thought to the universe, let the punishment fit the crime. I’ll never unsee that.

Pivoting slowly, I face Mr. Adriani, carefully keeping my eyes averted. “Adriani, please put the towel around your waist right now, and get inside and get dressed.”

“Ok, mom.” He yanks the towel from around his shoulders, his old bones, and another small appendage, jangling around in a way I could do entirely without as he complies.

As I face the house, waiting for the automatic door to open, I blink hard several times trying to clear my head of the image. My still frantic mind focuses again on the task at hand.

Information.

I need information about dragons.  

The ambient air inside Tassler house is frigid against my sun-warmed skin, and beneath my feet the travertine tile feels like a solid block of ice and only a little less slick. My bare feet make little slap-slap noises on the floor, then the stairs as I pound up them.

I throw the door open to Rebecca’s room, resenting her even more for taking off when I need her help.

“Would you stop that?” I demand as SOFie hits me with one of her nauseating vitriol-laced flashes. “I get it. You don’t trust her. She’s still the only subject matter expert we have on dragons.”

It’s quickly apparent from a visual inspection that whatever expertise Rebecca has, her sources of that knowledge aren’t here at Tassler house. At least not any in any readily identifiable form.

She uses one of the laptops in the downstairs office like Channing and me, but I can’t imagine Damien not having some program in place on the Avernus servers that flags for the kind of information she’s collecting. Channing’s leadership trio would safeguard against infiltration by or betrayal to the dragon.

Smart as she is, I can’t imagine her not anticipating that too. Since she’s not possessed of an eidetic memory, that means there’s something else here she uses for reference.

I reach out with my invisible technomage fingers, feeling my way through the room and coming up empty-handed. If she’s keeping an electronic device with her collected information stored on it, it’s not in this room.

She’s not the kind that would leave something that valuable somewhere she didn’t consider it safe, which likely isn’t far from her. I widen my search, expanding it to include Tassler house, then the outdoor entertainment areas, then the garage.

That’s when the tiniest little ping of something out of place hits me. “Bingo,” I whisper, a slow smile creeping over my face as I detect the sleeping presence of a hidden USB drive. “Let’s go find out what that has to say.”

“What has to say?”

I startle violently, pivoting fast to face Mr. Adriani. He peers at me blankly where he stands in the hallway, but at least he’s dressed.

“I’d stay out of her room, Liza,” he warns in his scratchy old man voice. “She’s real protective of her stuff.”

Now I’m ‘Liza’? Whatever. My brows draw together. “Have you been in her things?”

His milky blue eyes go wide in a wrinkled face and he shakes his head quickly. “No. Never. Mom says it’s rude to snoop.”

Assuming by ‘mom’ he means me, then that’s true. I do say that. Besides not liking when someone violates my trust, in his case, I didn’t want him wandering around and finding a way to get himself hurt. “Then how do you know she’s protective of her stuff?”

“She told me,” he pipes up immediately. “I was watching her with her treasure one day.”

“Treasure?”

“Uh-huh. She’s got a treasure chest full of jewels. She was crying over it.”

I bite the inside of my bottom lip. I’ve never seen Rebecca wear a single piece of jewelry. She dresses like a fashionista every minute of the day— Peruvian Vicuna wool suits, Koigu Kersti cashmere cardigans and robes, Mulberry silk undergarments and camisoles— but she doesn’t wear jewelry. Not even a watch.

And crying? I didn’t even know she had the capacity for any emotion besides hateful disdain.

“Were you snooping when you saw her?” I ask, disapprovingly.

Again, he shakes his head quickly. “No, mom. She left the door open.”

“Good. Don’t be disrespectful.” Leave that to the professionals, like me for instance. “Why don’t you go watch some Lucy and Ricky? I’ll bring you some lunch in a few minutes.”

“Okay.”

I watch as he bounds off, wondering what other little secrets Her Royal Rudeness Rebecca is keeping. Facing her room, I unleash my ghostly tentacles again.

Organic materials like wood or most fabric or gemstones such as pearl or amber, even once they’re no longer part of a living being, have a distinctly different signature to them than inorganic materials like glass or metal or jewels like diamonds or SOFie-type sapphires. It doesn’t take long to locate the dense pocket of them in Rebecca’s room.

It’s interesting to me that she feels so confident in keeping jewelry in her room, but not whatever is on that little USB drive hidden in the garage. Then again, I’m certain she knows there’s no way that Channing would step foot in her bedroom ever— dumb beefcake that he is, even he’s not stupid enough to open that can of worms. Mr. Adriani’s obviously a simple person, so terrorizing him with threats would work too. Which left only me, who she’s managed by being such a hateful b***h.

Until now.

Now, I have a whole new bunch of motivators.

I don’t bother opening my eyes to follow the path my invisible senses guide towards and the treasure trove Mr. Adriani mentioned. Once I’m positioned before it and do open them, I almost laugh out loud at her hiding place. Clearly, she has a lot more confidence in her ability to frighten people than is merited.

The ‘treasure chest’ is a cherry-stained wood jewelry box tucked into one of the linen storage baskets full of bathroom towels and washcloths. It’s placed on the topmost shelf of the Lucite storage unit, which is above my head, and even though he’s a little taller, still above Mr. Adriani’s head. I expect it’s probably about eye level for Rebecca since she’s tall and svelte as a werewolf, which means the one person in the house who might immediately spy it—Channing— is the only one it’s visible to. And since he’d probably die before setting foot in here, well, it’s pretty damn safe.

Extending my hands, I hold them to the outside of the basket without touching and close my eyes again. Show me, I tell my technomage senses.

It’s a vintage rosewood jewelry box with a three-way expanding top that secures with a simple keyed lock. Beneath the lid’s three levered trays, there’s an internal divided compartment for storing individual pieces separately from each other. Beneath is a deep pull-out lower drawer. The inside of each area is lined with crushed velvet.

The impressive case aside, it’s what’s inside that astounds me.

The three upper levered trays are filled in each padded section with loose gemstones—glittering green emeralds, deep wine-colored garnets, sparkling fiery rubies, shimmering ocean-blue sapphires, rich purple amethyst and dazzlingly bright diamonds. The divided section beneath is filled with gem-encrusted, precious metal jewelry pieces of every design—cuff and chain bracelets and anklets that connect via delicate silver and gold chains to bejeweled finger and toe rings, lavishly jeweled chokers, necklaces and torques. The coup de grâce is in the lower drawer—a jeweled cap-like headpiece with a short gemstone-studded veil off the back.

Opening my eyes, I back away, staring at the basket holding the secreted jewelry box in astonishment.

Are these real? I ask SOFie, already suspecting the answer.

The bright twinkly tingling makes my stomach knot up and I feel nauseous.

Rebecca had said that she and Ferdi had once been the ruling Alpha family of Avernus. Now that title belongs to Channing exclusively. Though I don’t consider him flaunting in any way, he has made it clear money isn’t an object or an issue in his role.

So, in theory, Rebecca’s outrageously expensive clothes, this massive collection of jewelry and loose gemstones might have come from being part of the Alpha family, but I can’t imagine a werewolf being so materialistic. They seem much more mate and family oriented.

Or at least Channing does. The only other werewolf female I’ve met is Dr. Lyall. Considering her behavior, especially with her comments about Damien as her son, I wouldn’t have expected something like this from Rebecca either.

Is this why Channing’s father challenged for the Alpha position? Were Rebecca and Ferdi’s family somehow abusing the role, besides their attacks against the dragon causing catastrophic werewolf losses?

I rub my eyes, suddenly feeling exhausted, and wrap my arms about myself. I hadn’t expected to compound my concerns by looking for reference materials about dragons in Rebecca’s room, but finding a multi-million dollar cashe of gemstones and jewelry tends to do that.

I’d relish the opportunity to talk to Channing about this, but if he hasn’t called yet, then he’s still traveling. Which means there’s nothing further I can do regarding the Rebecca issue, no matter how much it puzzles me.

Heaving a sigh, I force myself to set the unsolvable problem aside, and focus on the one with which I might potentially make progress.

Padding out of Rebecca’s room, I close the door behind me and head for the bedroom I share with Channing. I’m freezing standing around in this barely-there bathing suit and no shoes and that’s inside the house. Going down into the garage will be a lot cooler and I don’t care to do it dressed in this Victoria’s Secret swimsuit. Personally, I think Victoria's secret is that she likes to dress like a tramp.

Plus, I still have the issue of fixing something for Mr. Adriani for lunch.

The second thing I love about Tassler house is this in-wall fireplace between the master bedroom and master bath. With the flip of a switch, I have a wall-length blower circulating warm air on either or both sides, so the bathroom gets nice and warm long before I strip and wait for the shower to heat.

My nightmare memory haunts me while I wash the saltwater off me and out of my hair. How did I know the woman that the dragon had captured wasn’t actually his mate? Aside from her bursting into flames—that was kind of a dead giveaway, pun fully intended. But why didn’t the dragon know that?

The way Channing talks, he’s known since I was a child that I was his mate. Granted, he’s got a wolf’s nose that in some mysterious fashion I haven’t figured out yet helps him make that distinction between his mate and someone not his mate. Humans obviously don’t have that going for them, so I guess it’s not out of the realm of possibility that the dragon doesn’t have that ability either.

Still, humans can choose.

In my nightmare, it almost seemed as if—

Oh God.

As if he can’t choose. 

I turn off the shower and stare blindly at the water droplets beaded on the tile surfaces.

There’s no denying mate selection is weird in the first place. Werewolf noses aside, we live on a planet with billions of people. Essentially, our mate selection process is picking one of those billions at random and making a mental choice that he or she is the one with whom we’re going on adventures and having s*x from then on.

Why couldn’t the dragon do the same thing?

Help me understand.  Help me understand.  Help me understand. Help me understand.

It hits me as I’m reaching for my towel.

How can we as humans all have a myth about dragons? Even across countless lingual and cultural differences with significant geographical barriers between tribes and clans, there's a dragon myth in every society in the world.

In Asian cultures, dragons are mostly benevolent symbols of imperial rule and bringers of good fortune. They exist as a sign in the Chinese zodiac. The Babylonian dragon myth involved Tiamat, a great scaly monster that threatened the destruction of creation and the return to primordial chaos. In Greek mythology, Zeus struck down the fire-breathing monster Typhon and the Golden Fleece recovered by Jason is guarded by a sleepless dragon. Then there’s the story of St. George and the dragon. In many of those myths, the dragon seems to exist purely for the purpose of giving the hero something to slay.

And once people began discovering dinosaur fossils, the myths of dragons suddenly seemed not merely possible, but proven. It’s as if the scaly leather-winged monster followed silently behind humans as they migrated across the globe, adapting itself to its new conditions, just like the human population it hides within.

Up until six weeks ago, I’d never seen a dragon. Yet, I knew what one might look like, roughly. But even having seen one—actually seen one—if I told someone that, they’d think I was as loopy in the head as Mr. Adriani. Which begs the question—why are there so many myths about a hypothetical creature?

Why do we all know of dragons, but no one believes in them?

There's only one answer: because we encounter them so rarely.

This dragon can’t simply choose a mate because he’s not the same as the other billions of people on this planet. Physiologically, he’s impervious to most harm. He’s capable of generating and withstanding extreme heat, even in his shifted human form. He possesses internal body structures—furnaces— where he creates dragonfire. So genetically, he must be different too.

Which makes finding his mate among the billions of look-alike humans on the planet akin to finding a needle in a haystack.

He’d need a way to narrow down the choices, which explains why he’s after access to the Heritage DNA database. There must be a genetic marker.

But prior to this century of molecular genomics and advanced and sophisticated genetic typing, there had to be another way. A tool that enabled them to discern the difference in a dragon concealed inside the human population and help dragon mates find one another.

A tool like a technomage who can visualize the nervous system and other body structures without cutting someone open or incinerating them in a mating ritual. 

Am I right? I ask SOFie. I bet I know the answer to this too. 

The bright twinkly tingling isn't of much comfort. 

I rub my brow. God, I’m so confused.

If all the dragon wants is his mate, then why would the werewolves care? Why would they try to stop that pairing? Why would I—as Mia—try to stop that pairing? What don’t I know? Why can’t I remember this, but I remember so much else? 

Standing here buck-naked isn’t getting me anywhere closer to the answer, I tell myself. I run a comb through my hair and stare at my reflection in the mirror.

Enigma that she is, Rebecca is right. The dragon shouldn’t be killed. Certainly not to satisfy the hold-over jealousy-rage vendetta I’m carting around in my second life. I still have to find him though.

Since Channing’s not here to appreciate it, I dispense with the strappy, lacy sexy bras he likes and just pull on some panties, and a clean pair of yoga pants. I debate the options in my closet for a few seconds longer, then march myself into Channing’s.

Looking over the selection offered in his closet, I sigh.

I’m so pathetic. I miss him and he hasn’t even been gone all day. Maybe it’s because I know he won’t be home tonight or tomorrow night. Maybe it’s because of the way he looked at me this morning before he left—like it was ripping his heart out. 

The t-shirt he wore yesterday is sitting on the top of his laundry basket and I fish it out, holding it up to my nose. I inhale through it, long and slow, savoring the clean sun-kissed sand and salty sea odor of him that lingers there. God, he smells good.

Without another thought, I tug the shirt over my head. In the bedroom, I stuff my feet back into my Converse high-tops, then hurry downstairs.

I’m a big fan of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup lunches. Something about that rich buttery bread and gooey melted cheese combined with the acidic fresh zip of tomato soup just works for me. Fortunately, it works for Adriani too.

It’s also lucky that I have a quietly proud gourmet cook for a mate, because he’s upped my grilled cheese and tomato soup game exponentially. Of course, Channing likes his with about a two-inch thick layer of meat inside his sandwich—I can pass on that—but he’s a master of picking the perfect blend of cheeses and extra sandwich fillings I’d never considered.

The particular recipe of his I’m exceptionally fond of right now is made with five cheeses—grated Manchego, Gruyere, white cheddar, Monterey jack and thinly-sliced brie with the rind removed. It’s grilled with a mixture of mayo and butter on the bread that gives the smooth, creamy buttery flavor and cooks up with a perfect crispy crust. It combines well with some inside extras too—Channing likes about three pounds of bacon on his, Mr. Adriani likes tomatoes and avocado, and I think the thing is to die for with ripe blackberries.

The go-to tomato soup recipe takes longer than the stuff you buy from the can, but the taste is so incredible that I tough it out for the gratification when I’m done. I’m not a fan of chopping onions or pressing garlic, so again, my resident chef mate chops onions and freezes them for me, and minces garlic every other day that he stores in a closed container in the refrigerator to use when he cooks. Add a couple cans of peeled whole tomatoes, salt, pepper, celery seed and some oregano and set it to simmer until the tomatoes are easy to break up and it’s on the way. I prefer the flavor softened a bit by stirring in a cup of cream at the end, but it’s good either way.

I start the soup, then the sandwiches, and by the time the soup’s done, so is the whole meal. Since I’m still feeling pretty needy, I eat lunch with Mr. Adriani and watch an episode of I Love Lucy. It’s corny-sweet humor is enjoyable and buffers my spirits, giving me the will to trudge my way to the garage. 

There’s something gloomy about garages, and the smell of rubber and automobile fluids grates on my nerves. It’s almost enough that I abandon the whole prospect, then I figure best to just get it over with.

Closing my eyes, I extend my invisible antennae and let them guide me towards the hidden USB drive here. I wind up descending to the underground level of the garage, which is even drearier and worse smelling than the upper level. That’s when I find myself up against another of those handle-less doors like there was at Avernus’ fallout shelter.

It’s a small techno-push and the electronic door releases, then swings inward with a soft whoosh. There’s a lighted room on the other side, with a small desk covered with scattered papers and notes, bookmarked stacks of books and some flipped open and held with other books to keep the page. There’s also an easy chair and a wide bookshelf covered in the library resources I had expected to find in Rebecca’s possession.

“Hello, Rebecca,” I reply to her cold-eyed death glare.