“Lousy Dragon! Get off of my lawn!” I said, really, really loudly… in my head.

I didn’t say it aloud, of course. Even exhausted to the point of punch-drunk, I still had a slight sense of self-preservation. On the other hand, if Dragons could read minds, I was already in trouble.

Marked for death. Marked by the Shadow King. I watched as Peredur coalesced out of smoke and the ever present hint of fire. I realized I hadn’t seen him before so much as knew he was there. I still didn’t see him, exactly. I recognized the feeling of potential trouble and power in the air. It had his feel. There’s just too much to see in a Dragon. Smoke and mirrors, reflections and shadows, illusions, coincidences and elements, these are the things magic works with when it wishes to be subtle. Science likes to bring things into the light, but magic likes to be just around the corner until it eats your face.

Not much can actually read your mind. You’d have to have excellent focus to project more than a jarbled amount of incidental information, and what kind of stuff do we think about? Not where we hid the homeworld, but whether or not we can get the report done on time for Mr. Johnson and why does he wear that tacky hairpiece when he’d look better just biting the bullet and shaving his head, and are we going to use the fish up tonight and I bet Shawn used the last of the beer so I’ll have to pick some up at the store and is Shawn going to go out with Lara tonight and all of these things (with the occasional, “Oooh! Squirrel!”) are halfway simultaneous and peppered with non-sequitors. Maybe we hope we come up on the obsessive type that thinks, “I am going to use my knife to kill Edna on 8th Street,” if you’re a hero or, “I hope no one finds the $100 bill I hid behind the false brick in the fireplace,” if you’re a villain, and repeats it the way we do song lyrics in our head. (“And she’s hotter than reality by far…”) It’s just not likely.

And to kind of prove the point, well, that’s all I was thinking in just a few steps from the car.

“E,” Peredur breathed out a vision-warping exhalation. I was good with, “E,” because if he had done some kind of true name thing it would have creeped me the heck out.

“That’s me,” I suggested. I wanted to say I said it without any insolence, because while my heroes always had snark ready to hand, I’m not as practiced with it as a weapon as I might like to be.

He ignored me, just as I would have predicted. I’m practically the Oracle when it comes to how strange creatures handle my sense of humour. I started out thinking Ivan was well-natured, after all.

“You did not use the stone,” he said.

I frowned. I had taken it along in my pocket. I had considered it when speaking with the Power that had used Sylvia. But Rent-a-Wreck had said this was witch business. It hadn’t felt right, which is when I found the packet of salt under my fingers instead.

“Eh,” I shrugged. “I had it under control. No need to call forth the strike team.” I couldn’t look Peredur in his reddish eyes, and only part of it was the faint smell of woodsmoke that irritated my eyes.

“The King of Small Things might thank you,” he said.

“Is that some kind of warning?” I asked. I hadn’t meant for it to be so blunt, but I was really tired and not just tired of the word games.

“You are attracting influence,” he said, non-perturbed. I was afraid I knew where it was going. Witches build networks, just as I was remembering on the way home. Wizards do very similar things as they apprentice. They have to show they’re capable, and getting a reputation (which is why so many of them are “Balthazar the Bold,” or “Vasilisa the Wise,” or “X the Hypotenuse,” or whatever) was part of their capability. I’m the Portal Doctor, and that was a bit in imitation.

“No, still don’t want to be a wizard.” Just in case I still had free will or choice in the matter. I couldn’t cast spells. I don’t want to collect rat tails and pockets of sunshine and the power of a locomotive or whatever. I liked my DVD collection much better. Peredur was blocking the way to my door.

“Do you still want your fairy, Closer?” I stopped.

“Um, about that. I guess I should have sent a condolences card, but I don’t think she made it out of–” I broke off as the door opened and Doloise stood there.

She was surrounded by the light in my living room, and looked, well, alive. I would have to say she looked awfully good for alive. Still had great legs, which I saw in partial silhouette.

“She’s, I, um.” I stopped there. I wanted to say something to her, like, “Hello,” or “How?” or “Are you really?” but I figured being silent kept me out of trouble until I found the right thing to say.

“Eloquent as always,” Peredur might have cracked a smile. Then the illusion was gone, in a puff of smoke. “You are not done with the Dragon. No Dragon-killer are you.”

“You don’t have to worry,” I said. I looked at where my open door stood, the threshhold empty of anything but light.

“Oh, I am not worried,” he said. “Even though I might have said you are no Dragon-killer, yet.”

“Yet?” I blinked again as he left.

Was being a Dragon-killer better or worse than being a wizard? I weighed them wearily in my head. On the wizard side, there was all the upkeep and trouble. On the Dragon-killer there was, well, Dragons, and death, and well, the actual worry that I’d suddenly have to kill giants and harpies and other mythological things and maybe have to become a tailor or some crazy thing like that to fit the fairytale.

I left the keys on the table next to the door, and only then thought to wonder who had been in the house.