Chapter 2
"Can't you see ?"
Dragon's breath laced with brimstone carried a woman's voice—mature and soft as gauze lifted by the wind, brushing over a hard face.
Baron tapped his white cane and gave a rueful laugh. "Forgive , Mrs. Dracoon. A fever took what little sight I had when I was eight. To protect what's left of my pride, I've tried ever since to live as though I were whole."
"I'd like to say I can see you, but the truth is I can't. All I sll is the iris on the breeze—proof, to , that you are a lady both graceful and chaste."
The dragon's head filled the front hall. A long, angular snout and cold, enormous pupils made elegance—or chastity—feel impossible.
Baron prayed soone would pass behind him, see this mountain of scales, and call the police. What was the UK ergency number again—119? 911? Certainly not 996.
The red dragon's gaze swept over him like a searchlight and settled on his dark, lifeless eyes—still as a stagnant pool.
"Co with , Mr. Constantine. Tell Sheffield Bank's newest policy."
The impossible happened: in an instant the dragon shrank into a red-haired girl in a white dress—beautiful, imperious, scarlet kitten heels clicking against the floor, her crimson irises flecked with what looked like flecks of gold.
Baron showed no flicker of surprise. He kept his earlier posture, even bowed politely. "As you wish, Mrs. Dracoon."
"Don't call Mrs. Anything. Carn Ray Dracoon—use my na."
The red-haired girl guided him to a high-backed chair and took her own seat across a white marble table. Fog pressed against the window; a bouquet of dahlias on the table chewed idly on a bone, separating them.
The dahlia flashed pointed teeth at Baron. Its perfu carried a disquieting hint of blood. Baron pretended not to notice. He set his briefcase on the table, blocking the flower's open maw, opened the case, and withdrew the demand letter Miss Alice had prepared.
"Miss Carn, I'm here on the bank's behalf. This letter reminds you that the principal and interest on last year's loan now total twelve thousand two hundred forty-one pounds and fifty pence..."
"A demand letter?" Carn's expression chilled the mont she took it.
"Allow to remind you, Miss Carn. The Seventh Addendum to the 1982 'Philip District Real-Estate Mortgage Agreent' clearly states—"
Baron summoned every ounce of a professional debt-collector's poise. Angering a dragon was dangerous, but letting her see through his disguise would be worse.
"You misunderstand , Mr. Constantine. I have no intention of defaulting. So words, however, aren't fit for this room."
After turning the letter over several tis, she slipped it into a pocket in her skirt.
If not here, then where? And why choose the spot directly opposite the front door—perfect for a quick escape?
Baron's caution spiked. "I find this room quite suitable, Miss Carn. The dahlia's scent aids conversation."
Carn said nothing. She rapped the table once; the dahlia used its head to close the briefcase stuffed with papers. Rising, she pressed Baron's cane into his hand.
"Co with , Mr. Constantine."
Leaning against the carved banister, she offered a slender hand. "Would you like help?"
The dahlia stared—though it had no eyes. Baron's instincts warned: refuse and be eaten.
Seeing no alternative, he lifted his cane to show he could manage on his own.
...
The cane's rhythmic tap echoed across the oak floorboards like a gloomy orchestra. Four doors lined the upper landing—two left, two right. Baron followed Miss Carn into the first on the left.
A large bed, a bedside lamp, white shutters, and on the sill the sa irises he had slled outside. Through the slats he could see the great oak across the street.
Carn sat on the edge of the bed and patted the space beside her. "Please sit, Mr. Constantine."
Baron declined politely—standing was good for the constitution—and positioned himself near the door, ready to bolt.
With a soft click the door closed. A tallic scrape suggested a lock sliding ho, though the woman had never left the bed. And now... she was undressing?
Baron's heart lurched.
Carn loosened the ties at the back of her gown. Silk and hair cascaded together; alabaster skin flashed into the lamplight.
She was... generously built.
Baron stared unblinkingly at her collarbone, at the smooth curve of her arms. The kitten heels hit the floor; sheer stockings and silk pooled at her feet until she stood without a stitch.
He betrayed no emotion and, with professional dedication, continued reciting—purely from the notes he had morized—Sheffield Industrial Bank's latest policies.
"As to your repaynt schedule—"
"Don't worry about the debt, Mr. Constantine. Because..."
Carn rose. The unclothed body brushed against his clothes, softness pressing through fabric. Her lashes were thick fans; her irises mirrored ice over hidden depths.
She breathed against his ear, voice soft as wind across wheat:
"I'll repay it with my body."
"I believe you've misunderstood, Miss Carn. My purpose today is rely to assess your creditworthiness. The bank will send a representative later—"
Baron edged away, groped behind him with his cane-hand for the doorknob.
His fingers found it, and relief flared—until the "knob" took his hand.
Carn had slipped behind him. She turned him by the wrist, nails grazing the buttons of his coat.
Eyes cold, voice colder: "Look at ."
When had she...?
A shiver ran through Baron as her gaze bored into his. Those crimson irises blazed like twin furnaces.
Under that fire he felt utterly exposed, a lone boat suddenly caught in a lighthouse's beam.
Carn seized his hand and pressed it to her bare breast. Her words cracked like thunder:
"You know I'm a dragon, don't you?"
"A dragon? Miss Carn, what an imagination."
He withdrew his hand with calm caution, the habitual wariness of a blind man.
"Stop pretending. You brought the Knight Codex. You want —who failed the Ascension—to honor the bargain."
Knight Codex? Ascension? The bargain?
Baron didn't understand the words, yet instinct told him to glance at the letter he had delivered. Carn produced it.
"Your theatrics have drawn attention. The Inquisition has already noticed. The Dracoon line never breaks its word. I don't know how you found on the very day I failed, nor do I care. Before the Inquisitors arrive, I will seal a blood pact using the Codex you carry and complete the Dragon-Knight contract."
She tore the envelope. Inside lay yellowed parchnt; the paper scraps burned to ash in the fla that danced on her fingertips. Baron's mind flashed to the word magic.
"My rank far exceeds yours. I don't know why 'he' chose a relic like you—bereft of even the Sight—for this bargain. But hear , Baron Constantine."
She spoke his full na with solemn gravity. "The Red Dragon is the dragon abandoned by fate. By binding yourself to , you too will be cast adrift."
"So I can refuse the pact?"
Though the terms were still foggy, Baron had followed her logic well enough.
"This is a warning, not a choice."
She bit his index finger.
A sting, then blood welled, dripping onto her rose-red lips and gliding along her smooth chin like sunset across the sky, lending her sacred beauty a poppy-like allure.
Baron tried to pull free, but his limbs turned watery. A tingling current raced from fingertip to every nerve.
Carn licked the wound, then bit her own lip. Her blood mingled with his in a spiral like two rose petals caught in a whirlpool.
Then she sang—an ancient lody in a language Baron did not know, yet the aning flowed clear:
A Dream-Lord once forged a paradise. Mortals loved him, so the gods killed him, letting him accompany all who close their eyes.
An odd song. Odder still that he understood.
"Say 'I do.'"
Carn's fingertip rested over his heart. After seeing her dragon form, Baron had no doubt she could pierce his heart in an instant.
I do—my ass.
"I... do."
Baron swallowed. The ritual felt unsettlingly like a wedding—except he was the reluctant bride.
"And I do. Then the pact is sealed. From this mont you are my sole knight. By the na of House Dracoon and the Law of Order, I grant you dragon-scale and claw to withstand all force; I grant you dragon-heart and battle-will to decide and act without hesitation..."
Her voice carried the iron tang of blood. Flas spilled from her eyes—ancient, sorrowful, like Rhine-gold gleaming on a riverbed for a thousand years.
Baron felt, for an instant, that if she were a dragon, she must be a lonely one.
"Your fate will be bound to mine; my past will be your gift. Should either betray the other, may we find no grave."
Her hand pressed against his heart. Baron caught that hand—though the silk-smooth skin startled him—and said, low and firm, "Miss Carn..."
He never finished.
Across the parchnt, Carn kissed him, bit his lip, and let their mingled blood soak into the page.
My first kiss—gone.
That was his first thought.
Worth it.
That was his second.
It hurts.
That was the third idea, and it soon filled every corner of his mind.
A violent dizziness surged through his skull, as if coal were burning at the bottom of an abyss. In a daze, he seed to see flas forging his nerves until they turned translucent. At one instant, his pupils glowed molten gold—like a fire newly kindled—yet a gust of wind snuffed it out.
"To be, or not to be—that is the question."
The woman's voice faded, drifting away like gauze caught in the wind.
From the attic ca the rapid clatter of boots on stairs, then the door shook under a frantic hamring—sharp, urgent, like a war-drum beating the charge.
Through the slats of the shutters, Baron saw police cars parked outside, lights flashing red and blue. Officers clustered together, whispering; neighbors in the street did the sa. He could actually hear every murmured word from a hundred ters away. They'd received a report: an intruder had broken in, murdered the family of three, and was now hiding in this very villa.
Murder? A family of three? An intruder?
Baron thought they must be joking. A dragon lived in this house—what killer would dare trespass? Unless the killer was a dragon himself, or so mythical dragonslayer, a Dragon-Knight... But this wasn't a fantasy film; there were no dragonslayers or Dragon-Knights.
A sudden thought struck him: Carn's chant monts ago.
The Knight Codex...
"Miss Carn..."
Baron looked down, but Carn had vanished. The soft, smooth arm he had been holding had beco a fruit knife slick with blood.
With a sickening premonition, he turned to the bed.
His heart lurched.
Three blood-soaked bodies.
They resembled the family portrait now hanging on the wall: an old man, an old woman, and a beautiful, innocent girl—Carn—her body half covered by congealed blood and tangled clothes. Only here, her red hair had turned silver, matted scarlet.
While Baron stared in disbelief, the door splintered under the battering ram of riot police.
Yet the first to burst in was not an officer but a silver-haired beauty in a tailored suit and gold-rimd spectacles. She was forced to the ground before Baron, just managing to lift her pale-gray eyes and fix him with a murderous glare.
Mrs. Eleanor shouted from the floor, voice trembling with fury, "Constantine! Look what you've done!"
Before the officers could tackle him, Baron pulled out the slip of paper Alice had given him about the assignnt. The ink twisted and lted; the na "Dracoon" bled into "Morgwin."
Eleanor Morgwin—the true owner of this villa.
The knife clattered to the floor. Police fell on Baron from every side. As the last sliver of space between bodies closed, he tilted his head and saw the pot of irises on the windowsill wither.
---
[Baron Constantine (original body) – Work Diary
January 4, 1985 / London / Overcast
After so many years in Warrington, I've finally reached London. I'm only changing trains to Birmingham, but at least I've seen Big Ben.
Ha—just like in the papers, standing tall like a knight's lance.
I once wrote a poem about it in composition class and even turned it into a little booklet the other kids passed around.
Let recall how it began:
Oh, mighty Big Ben, racing second by second to save England...
Well, truth be told, Christine never liked that poem of mine.]
---
Inside the police van, Baron glimpsed through barred windows the sa Big Ben his forr self had described—towering, lance-straight.
He had reached London.
Or, more precisely...
Expressionless n in black suits took the handcuffed, dark-haired youth from the police, umbrellas in hand.
Baron read the plaque on the iron gate.
He had arrived at Her Majesty's Prison Thaside—known locally as London Thirteen.
He was mildly surprised.
Has Britain now abolished the trial stage entirely and moved straight to dormitory allocation for suspects?
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