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"Make a hole, bagger."

Malcolm Lamar grinned and made some room for his lover to flop onto the sofa in a manner quite undignified for the usually graceful lion. At the moment, there was no one else to observe either the flop or the subsequent cuddle that the tiger scooped his lion into, with sincere if tired purring on both parts. "Yup, you're family now."

Bobby Harris chuckled. "I'd never experienced a lock-in before, and certainly not from the service side of things. What time is it, anyway?"

"Just after three-thirty," the young tiger squinted slightly at the small, analog clock on the break room wall. "Only a few more hours to go. Sleepy, or just tired?"

"I'll be sleepy when the time comes. For now, I'm grateful for the break. I suspect Dunc'n'Dan will need their own break soon."

Malcolm chuckled at the conjoined names of his twin older brothers. What made it funnier was that both Duncan and Daniel took to the moniker right away, starting to make Wonder Twins jokes ("Power of Free Tokens!" "Form of Skeeball!"). Tonight was All Paws On Deck, and although a first for Bobby, he was taking it like a trooper. It was pretty tame for a lock-in -- only two clean-ups from food messes, and only one crying pup that Bobby took well in paw. The yowen had become a little over-stimulated, and she had broken down for no apparent cause or reason. The muscular lion athlete gathered up the little Shiba-Inu pup with great ease and took her to a quieter corner of the facility, sitting on the floor and holding her till she was able to calm down. At that point, she was embarrassed, and Bobby comforted her through that too. She was perhaps seven, at Malcolm's guess, and the lion had taken great care of her. Both Malcolm and Lisa had dropped by, near enough to see that the two were all right, and then left them to themselves again. Before too much time had passed, the yowen felt ready to go back into the fray, and she thanked Bobby with a hug then padded quickly toward one of the pinball tables that had a wooden step set up in front of it so that a smaller pup could see everything.

"You were great with that yowen earlier."

Bobby chuckled softly. "Remember, I helped raise my two younger sisters. Dad always called it a tantrum, or even hysterics. They turned to me to listen to them." The lion sighed softly, a sound somewhere between memory and loss. Malcolm gave him a soft squeeze, and the quarterback turned to nuzzle the tiger gently. "It was Beth, mostly," he murmured, speaking of the younger sister. "Sarah was raised more like 'one of the guys,' so she developed the thicker skin. Even so, Beth was always the one who had to take the brunt of the teasing in the family. She was like that phrase I never could understand when I was growing up: 'The cheese stands alone'." He smiled softly, giving a very gentle Dutch rub to the tiger's head. "Thanks for explaining that one to me."

"I had to look it up first myself!" Malcolm grinned at his lover. "I tripped across it in a few places, but I never found an explanation of it. You got me curious again." He pecked a kiss to the lion's cheek. "See? It goes both ways."

Bobby purred softly, cuddled up the tiger a little closer. "A lot of things about us are like that." He grinned. "I'm not talking about just that!"

"Hey, I can dream, can't I?"

"After we're rested, you won't need to dream!" The lion athlete chuckled softly. "I meant with yowens. You were great with Celestine."

"So were you, though. You went to her defense without a moment's hesitation."

"And you helped her to calm down again and feel safe. We make a good team." Bobby's deep amber eyes, soft-lidded, languid, gazed into Malcolm's. "Is there a way that I can make an observation without scaring the crap out of both of us?"

The young tiger felt his heart enact a dozen clichés in just a few seconds and smiled, blushing, realizing that it felt really good. He pet his lover's russet mane with gentle fingers, fond of how it felt, not quite trusting himself to sniff for the coconut and lime of his conditioner, almost afraid he'd catch whiffs of the lion's darker scents. He loved Bobby, there was no question, but... "Way too soon for that, I know. How about we settle for seeing how well we work together over the next year or so? We've got school, and an apartment to live in, and family to come home to. Good start."

"Great start." The lion cupped a forepaw behind the tiger's head and brought him down into a warm kiss that made the younger cat's toes curl and his tail try to turn itself into a corkscrew. When he finally broke the kiss, Bobby looked both serene and very slightly winded. He smiled with great mischief. "Think you'd want to be married to a professional football player?"

"Only you. Whatever you want to be, I'd want to be married to you."

"What about you?"

"I'll be me, don't you worry. I might become a teacher after all, and even a pro athlete's life could include room for a teacher."

Bobby nosed the tiger's muzzle. "I won't let anything push you out of my life, Mal. And besides... maybe we'd both be teachers."

Malcolm felt his eyebrows try to climb into his headfur. The lion grinned at him.

"I've been talking to Daniel, and I'll talk to Stackhouse when we get back to campus. If I can work a few education and other classes into my curriculum, I might be in a position to get certified as a secondary school teacher-slash-gym-coach. I could turn my experience on the field into something to teach younger pups and kits."

"You'd give up a shot at pro sports?"

"Maybe." Bobby grinned again, tousling Malcolm's headfur. "It's a good fall-back option, whatever happens. If I'm not scouted, I can teach. If I'm scouted, but don't make the cut, I can teach. If I get second-string experience for a few years but not really considered big-time material, I can teach. And any experience might make me bankable as a coach." He kissed the younger cat's nose quickly. "See how well your astute and very clever jock can adapt?"

The tiger laughed and squeezed his lover close to him. "I love you so very much, Bobby Harris. Think we can get that 'happily ever after' thing the fairy tales heap upon us?"

"I doubt I'd get points for 'fairy' jokes."

That cost the lion a damned good lip-lock that lasted until they heard someone entering the breakroom, making_bow-chikka-wow-wow_ noises. They looked up expecting one of the twins. Instead, Mal's mom grinned toothily at them. "Cor," Lisa said in an excellent Cockney accent, "the things ye see when ye 'aven't got yer camera!"

* * * * * * * * * * *

All dawns are cold and gray at first, even the ones that promise a new day and a new year. The cliché would have been even deeper if it were being seen through a haze of cigarette smoke, but Gabriel Clyde had never picked up the habit, and he doubted that he ever would. He didn't need any further pain at this point. The young stallion had been awake for a good 22 hours by this time, and he didn't feel tired so much as frustrated and angry for reasons that he still couldn't quite pin down. Some of it was obvious. It was quite embarrassing enough for him to have fallen asleep in that damned lizard's house a few days ago, but for whatever reason, Cory seemed bound and determined to punish him for it. She barely spoke a word when he woke up, not explaining what had happened to him or to their host, how long he'd been asleep, not even taking him up on the idea of dinner. She had driven him to the motel in her Jeep, and it felt as if she had barely bothered to slow down before all but shoving him out the passenger door. Whatever had happened during his doze, it set back everything he'd been working toward, and that delay by itself would be enough to keep him awake all night.

He had gone to the fast-food place near the motel, figuring he should just let her cool off, give her some time to get back into a talking mood. After a few hours, he tried calling her, and it went to voice mail. "Cory, it's clear that I need to apologize for something, but I truly don't know what it is. Please let me know so we can talk it out, okay?" It was too soon to use_I love you_without it sounding artificial and pleading. It was a good phrase to use on a female, but only in the right way, at the right time, and only in person. Any other time, it would come across as a guilt trip, and that wasn't a button he was ready to press, at least not yet. It just didn't feel right.

"Enough" time had long since passed, and nothing had moved the slightest bit forward. Everything he'd tried to make happen over the last many days had been stymied at every turn. He'd found Parker, finally, but he hadn't been alone. Ever since Boxing Day, he'd been with that damned saluki who, presumably, was Benedict's little play toy. Maybe they'd had a row or something, but the white frilly pup hadn't left Parker's side for a moment. Even that felt like an insult to Demmie's memory, although it had been years and, presumably, we're all supposed to grow and move on. That wasn't a theory he wanted to test too closely. There are some things that need to be taken care of, years notwithstanding. Promises, after all, don't fade like old wallpaper, not if they're real. Gabriel knew that this was real.

Slowly, the sky grew brighter, clear, cold, with snow on the ground that looked white as paper, sharp as thumbtacks, hostile as the gleam in your enemy's eyes. The stallion felt his great square teeth grind for a moment, forcibly unclenched his jaw again. Everything seemed to frustrate him, from not being able to get the dragon to talk about Parker to not being able to get Parker on his own and, if necessary, beating the truth out of him. He could have done it anyway -- he could drop that toothpick of a saluki one-fisted, without breaking a sweat -- but he didn't want witnesses, should it come to that. He was mad as hell, and he was ready to avenge his Demmie... yes, the young dingo had been that important, if he'd been smart enough to have seen it at the time. That's another thing to blame the saluki for, that gleaming white fur that was like Demmie's... it still ripped at him, clawed at his heart, and now this crap with Cory...

He rose from his place on the bed and moved to the mini-fridge, pulling out another bottle of weak American so-called beer. Where the fuck could a self-respecting ruck get a proper damned lager in this idiot country? And what the fuck did IPA stand for, anyway? "Institutionalized Piss Americano" was his guess. Gabe could have his kinks, but watersports -- especially this bottled variety -- was not one of them. It was about the best pain-killer he had available to him, unless he wanted actual whiskey. He had forbidden himself that for a good many years, with good reason, and here in this strange land with even stranger people, it wouldn't do to let himself get too vulnerable. You never know what might try to creep into your head and throttle your brain.

For our matchless friends.

The Clyde felt his smooth taupe coat shift from eartips to frogs, wondering what the hell it meant. It was the last text that Cory had sent. She'd only sent three, each more confusing than the one before. First had been:Why did you do it? He had tried to respond to that the way any normal furson would respond to such a question, repeating his ignorance of whatever it was that he had done, asking her to tell him, to explain. Then after some time had come:I don't even know who you are. That was about as out-of-the-blue as you could get. Gabriel had pleaded for rationality, for talking it over, anywhere, at any pubic place, with witnesses of her own choosing, anything, if she'd just explain to him what was going on, knowing that he wanted to fix it, asking for her trust that he could fix it.

For our matchless friends.

When he read that, an involuntary whinny escaped him; he felt his body physically recoil from the image of the words on his cell phone. He stared for several seconds, then something in him took over, and he frowned hard enough to make his forehead hurt. What the hell did that even mean? He seemed to recall it from somewhere, some film or story, something about a deserted airport and books of matches that wouldn't light. It was a sign in a bowl full of matchbooks. It was supposed to be some kind of cliché, but since smoking was forbidden in so many places these days, it didn't really work as a cliché anymore. All he knew about it was that thinking of that phrase gave him the beginnings of a headache, along with something that felt like the ghost of stark-gibbering terror.

He polished off the last of the American rat piss, had to resist throwing the bottle across the room. Already feeling paranoid, the last thing he needed was to give someone cause for actually knocking on his door to ask what was going on in there. Nothing was going on, absofucklutely absofucknothing. He pushed himself away from the table at the window and put the bottle carefully back into its cardboard container, wondering if anyone in this benighted land really did give a damn about recycling or if it was just lip service. So much of what he had discovered here was a kind of camouflage, a polite nod to things that were supposed to matter.

Like loyalty. Like love. Like making things right.

Entering the bathroom, twisting sideways and ducking his head to fit through the door, he bent to lift the lid of the toilet, thought better of it. He was stripped already, and despite the vague haze in his brain, he was reasonably sure that he needed a shower. On the short list of benefits to this one-star motel was a well-maintained geyser, with good water pressure behind it. He placed the full-length rubber mat (one thing that he'd had to buy for himself) on the tub floor and stepped in, adjusting the temperature as hot as he could stand it. Leaning against the wall, he let his cock swell from his prepuce and drop, adding his flow to that of the shower. It was sensation enough to remind him of nights among the acers, in a land where December meant heat instead of cold. His half-lidded eyes saw a dark sky punctuated by the Cross, his flicking ears catching the sounds of insects and small night fauna he'd not heard in weeks, and certainly not in the shower. Demmie had always loved the "tock-tock" sound of brown-striped frogs from their home near the creek, and once, they had accidentally disturbed a sugar glider who was hunting for sweet sap. It swooped down close, and the young dingo squealed with surprise, then was embarrassed for sounding like a five-year-old female. Gabriel looked the pup in his eyes and then yeeked out a noise at least as high in pitch and grinned. "And that," the stallion intoned carefully, "is when I'm controlling it. Just imagine when I'm actually surprised by something!"

Demmie had laughed, falling into Gabe's warm embrace. This was during the time of summer hols, before those few nights when they had become lovers. Even then he knew how easy it would be, despite the issue with the pup's age, perhaps even despite the otter who had so captured the pup's heart back at school. Gabriel used his strength to hold on and not break his second promise of (at that time) four; he bent it a bit, but he had resisted for what seemed to be good reasons. It had only taken fate's clumsy paw to force the choice, and then...

He brought himself back to the present, let the hot needle spray refresh him. He made do with the American approximations of his own coat shampoo from back home, was glad when he discovered that there was a decent mane and tail conditioner available over here. It was Cory who had told him...

His forepaws stopped where they were, soaping up his chest. The mare hadn't told him; she had shown him. She had brought him into her large, garden-style tub, earning its name even more for the creeping fig vine that prospered and grew on a narrow, wall-length shelf near the ceiling. After a long, languorous loving, they had bathed each other with a tenderness that Gabriel had rarely experienced. Some few of his longtime clients -- older females whose idea of gratification with the Clyde was more about being physically and emotionally pampered than being merely sexually pleased -- had been the providers and beneficiaries of some gentle instruction in the art of soapy massage. The sweetly zaftig old she-panther back in Melbourne had always enjoyed the stallion's tongue first, and then the pleasure of his strong and talented forepaws after, massaging the fur shampoo thoroughly, properly, with teasing of the nipples and care to clean everything but never forgetting to rinse through properly. Such education came in handy when used to seduce the mare, with the exception that money wasn't exchanged.

He pressed his forehead to the wall of the shower space, trying to fight off that sense of fear again, that different fear, that fear of losing, of being lost, separated from the fear found in that message but one that was related... hell, he had no idea what he was thinking anymore. He had gone far past thoughts at this point. He wasn't supposed to have fallen in love with Demmie, and he did, more than he'd been able to admit. He wasn't supposed to have fallen in love with Cory either, and he did, and the irrational, growing fear inside him was that she, too, might become lost to him.

And for the life of him, he couldn't remember why.

* * * * * * * * * *

The well-used, well-maintained, older-model car pulled slowly into the large driveway, parking quietly to one side before dispensing its driver, who noted wryly that he might be described with the same adjectives attributed to the automobile. Pulling his jacket more snuggly about him, Dean Nelson Williamson padded purposefully up to the large front doors of the mansion-sized dwelling and rang the bell. Under other circumstances, it might have been considered rude to ring so loudly and repeatedly at only 8:00am on New Year's Day, but he had no worries about the occupant having a party hangover nor, should there be one, any qualms about exacerbating it. After a full minute of ringing and pounding on the door, he moved gracefully around the house to the outer door that led to the kitchen, used his spare key, and let himself in.

The wolverine closed the door behind him, removed his jacket, set it on one of the several hooks on the wall nearby. His well-trained nose told him that nothing had been baked, boiled, warmed, or even (gods help them) microwaved in several days. Checking the refrigerator, his reliable investigator told him that some few items were not entirely at their best but that nothing had gone off so terribly as to warrant a hazmat team's intervention. Knowing the occupant as he did (and as he had known him even more intimately, some years ago), Nelson found the necessary ingredients about where he had expected them and set to work with the espresso maker. It was a newer model than he was used to, but the principle was the same, and he set about creating a brew that, for most ordinary mortals, could be used to generate a vibratory frequency sufficient to threaten the cohesion of nearby space-time continua. Nelson wasn't entirely sure that it wouldn't eat through ceramic mug.

The wolverine knew the house well, and he took the shortest route to the master bedroom suite. He opened the door easily (unlike guest quarters, there was no lock on this door), and although he had prepared himself for it, the stench nearly bowled him over. The room was stifling hot, and the smell of over-baked dragon was not something for the weak of heart nor of stomach. Benedict took up most of the floor, stripped to his scales, his snout resting on his long tail, seemingly oblivious. It wasn't impossible that he was, in fact, in a form of comatose sleep common to dragons who have overtaxed themselves to the point of exhaustion. Like the exacerbation of the would-be hangover, however, Nelson gave not the slightest godsdamn.

"I know that you can hear me, Benedict," the wolverine said clearly. "It's possible for you to ignore me, but not to be deaf. You have millennia of self-preservation in your genetics, so stop the silly-buggers, as you so fondly label them in me, and wake up before I use my specialized knowledge of your anatomy to get you moving the hard way."

Nearly anyone else would not have seen a single indication that the dean had been heard. Nelson knew exactly what to look for, and he found it -- the very slightest shifting at the base of the dragon's tail.

"You should know that I have in my paw some particularly strong espresso, at as close to boiling point as your machine can provide, and that I brought the enema bag with me."

A crimson lid cracked slightly, the eye underneath rolling slowly to mark the interloper with a gaze that betrayed nothing whatsoever.

"If it turns out that I'm not strong enough to force you after all, I'll call Bruno over. We shall then strip and dance for you, making out even more passionately than we did the other day, denying you anything and everything, including the espresso, until you get up."

The rumble of softly brewing rage in the dragon's chest told Nelson that he'd hit a nerve.

"You should know that both our wives have granted us permission to go as far as necessary, and I for one am intensely curious to know just how much of that studly Leonberger I could take, since I have had no practice since our last dalliance. It would interest me to make a comparison; I've not had that opportunity, and for all I know, he might be a far better lover."

The rumble grew deeper, louder, and potentially more threatening.

"After that, assuming that I can still walk, we'll take over your kitchen, proceeding to use the wrong utensils on your best bakeware until the smell of fried, burned, cheap bologna fills the house."

"Damn you; you'd do it, too." The crimson head raised high enough to turn toward the wolverine and open its maw wide. Nelson approached and, with only the slightest care for the carpet, emptied the steaming liquid into the impervious, waiting maw. A single swallow was followed by popping eyes and a shudder that shook the drake from tip to tail. "No fucking sugar? How_dare_ you...!"

"Clean yourself, dress, join me in the kitchen. You'll have a proper brew and, if I still remember the correct technique, an omelet made of whatever ingredients haven't spoiled beyond the pale. It's as good as you'll get until I allow Royal to set paw in this mausoleum with some Pitch Blend and fresh pastries."

"Send for him now; I'll be ready by the time he gets here."

"My way or nothing," the dean insisted with a growl of his own, his ears back and shoulders squared. "You're godsdamned lucky I didn't bring Emily with me. She was asking about your selection of cutlery and expressed curiosity if dragon's balls could be prepared like prairie oysters."

The two males, longtime friends, one-time lovers, stared at each other with gazes most often saved for mortal enemies. After long moments, Benedict mumbled, "Cory?"

"With Emily. Arrived last night."

"How much?"

"Not enough."

The stares remained unbroken for another minute until Benedict lowered his head and began to raise his body off the floor. "Mind you don't bruise the eggs."

"Another word, and you can suck them raw."

Benedict moved his jaw, appeared to think better of it and rose without saying anything more. Nelson left him and padded back to the kitchen.

The wolverine moved deliberately, carefully, donning an apron, locating what he needed, bringing to his mind recipes and techniques that he had used from time to time even in his life as mate and sire. His skills, culinary and mental, had not deserted him; focus lay entirely upon oranges for the juicer, bacon and sausage for the pan (he avoided selecting a cast iron from the three available; he was still pissed with the dragon, but ruining a properly-seasoned skillet was worse than cruel and should, in civilized lands, be considered criminal), a small pot for the eggs, with butter, crème fraiche, chives, and other ingredients as he found them. Upon the dragon's arrival, properly bathed and casually but freshly dressed, the eggs and butter went into the pot, stirred together over generous fire, whereupon the wolverine used the technique of cooking with the heat retained in the pot, often removing it from the touch of the flames -- the same technique that one of Benedict's more infamous students taught in a video on YouTube after having learned it from the dragon as well, some years before. The pine marten, raised in Stratford, could be a prat when he wanted, but he knew his way around a kitchen in no small part because of the drake's culinary kick-start. No one was sure about the more intimate facets of his apprenticeship, and none dared ask either of them.

Benedict, clad in what appeared to be pajama bottoms and a velour robe, looked on with an air of feigned disinterest. After apparently finding nothing to complain about, the drake seated himself at the kitchen table with a petulance that Nelson was convinced would be accompanied by a "Pfui" at almost any moment. The wolverine prepared warmed plates for two, set them in place, finished by fetching two cups of properly-prepared espresso, and seating himself at the table. He waited for his host who, after a long moment, succumbed to the warmth and scents of good food that no epicure could resist. Even at his worst, the dragon could be counted on to react, eventually, to the desires and dictates of his palate. The dean bowed sufficiently to etiquette to avoid talking business over a meal; with his own carefully controlled rage and the drake's reluctance to speak, it was a tensely quiet meal.

At length, having dusted his crimson snout with his napkin for the last time, Benedict regarded the wolverine with eyes that were still guarded but less hungry. Although the vast majority of the dozen eggs, several sausage links, and rashers of bacon that Nelson had prepared were now transferred to the drake's belly, it would suffice only as a snack; the dean estimated that the dragon hadn't eaten substantially in several days.

"How much did Cory tell you?"

"Probably about half of what actually happened." Nelson leaned back in his chair, part of his mind wondering if he shouldn't have brought some sort of weapon. He thought it unlikely to be necessary, or even useful, but the sensation persisted. "She's barely slept for the last three nights. She came to us nearly out of her mind; the night full of anticipatory fireworks and noisemakers finally tipped her over the edge. That young mare had seen Hell first-paw, Benedict, and still she set your kitchen to rights before she left with the stallion in tow." He paused, waiting to see if the drake wished to volunteer anything yet. "I asked Bruno to get Harry Remmick for me. The old beagle may seem like a cliché to everyone else -- 'just' the sports teams' medico -- but he's fully licensed, and he doesn't mind making a house call for friends. Half a tablet of sedative calmed her down enough to talk; she took the rest after, and we put her in the guest room. Emily's looking after her."

"I'm glad she's all right."

"I doubt she'll ever be 'all right' again, if even part of what she told us is true."

Benedict canted his head slightly to his right. "How much of her story do you believe?"

"All of it. Particularly the parts she glossed over."

"How do you know that she left things out?"

Nelson's smile felt artificial to him. "I was once your lover, Benedict, and you told me more than you'd planned, I'm certain of it. I've never breathed a word to anyone, and I still won't. But she dropped the name Konstantin in her descriptions, and she told how you believe that the young stallion was somehow a clue to what had happened to Zachary Parker, just as our young enigma might be connected to the visitor from Down Under. She mentioned that you have the whole episode locked behind a trigger phrase, which means you've used your ring as well, I'm sure. And although Royal is indeed on call, and he'll bring food and Pitch Blend for you, he's no less pissed off at you than I am."

Benedict seemed surprised. "You told him?"

"He told me. About Konstantin. He's here, or he was. Royal is stronger than you think he is; not everything is hidden behind your curtain. He remembers that you hypnotized him, with his consent. He is able to remember Christmas Eve night, and he remembers that you have helped him to quell a fright that happened to him." The dean felt his jaw clench, and he worked to release it. "If you operated the way I think that you did, you've put a trigger into his mind to reach him quickly if something returns to his thinking that you don't want him to remember."

The drake leaned forward suddenly. "It's to protect him."

"I have no doubt." Nelson remained unmoved. "You're ethical, generally. The problem, Benedict, is that your bit of mental meddling is in conflict with what I suspect was a mind touch that night. You never mentioned the name 'Konstantin,' but he knows it. And he is still haunted by a snippet of Latin that I remember comes from the Carmina Burana. You gave him a bandage, Benedict, but I doubt that his sleep is undisturbed."

"I did what I could."

Waving aside the verbal unction of Nuremberg, the wolverine persisted. "Royal is still willing to trust you, even after I confirmed his suspicions that something more was going on. I'm willing to trust you only as far as you're ready to tell me the whole story, from beginning to end. I want a clean account, up to and including information that you think is private where Parker is concerned. No boundaries, no secrets, and no holding back."

"Client confidentiality."

"...can go fuck itself. Common Law doesn't acknowledge the existence of mind rape, but I know a trick worth two of that. First, I'm still the dean above your department, and I can have you thrown out before the semester starts. I've got a bucket-full of reasonable cause, and you know that the chancellors are iffy about your reputation in the first place."

"You wouldn't--"

"And second, I can use the stallion's trigger phrase and let him decide what he wants to do about you, lawful or not."

Benedict leaned back, just short of being smug. "The trigger won't work without the ring. Do you plan to take it by force?"

"No. I'm sure that you are aware of how good my memory is; almost eidetic, with things that fascinate me, like intricate designs. Do you also remember my penchant for art? My tendency to doodle and draw and make pictures?" The wolverine forced his muscles to relax. "It's not the ring, Benedict. It's the symbol. 'For our matchless friends'...? Only those as old as we are would remember that phrase."

"You could kill him."

"He could kill you."

Nearly three full minutes passed in the stoniest silence that Nelson had ever experienced. Eventually, the dragon managed to whisper, "Fuck you, Nelson."

"That was years ago, and no matter how much I enjoyed it then, I think I'm in a better situation to reverse our positions." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his eyes boring into the drake's. "Now talk, you overgrown lizard, before you lose the last friend who can actually help you."

With one final show of reluctance, Benedict began to speak, and Nelson -- as he had done for years -- listened closely to every word.