Kissed by Fire by Shéa MacLeod Page B

something almost like respect. I
shuddered with the thought. I had no idea why the sidhe were
suddenly taking such a keen interest in me and I didn’t like
it.
    It was never a good thing to come to the
attention of the sidhe. They had a way of making life very
difficult. Even if they liked you. They were more likely to dislike
you, and then you were in deep shit.
    The sidhe disappeared around a corner.
Suddenly I could breathe easier.
    I darted left up Ganton Street and finally
found Sandra’s shop tucked in between a men’s tailor and a shoe
shop. Honestly, you couldn’t miss it. The trim around the front
window was painted a bright golden yellow while the door was a hot,
fiery orange. Orange letters picked out in gold across the window
proclaimed “The Dragon’s Den.” Cute, real cute.
    The best thing about the shop had to be the
enormous paper-mâché dragon taking up the entire front window. It
was painted fire engine red with gold and orange accents and yellow
jewels for eyes. It was incredibly impressive and I wondered if
this was another result of Sandra’s own particular brand of magic,
or if she’d actually made it by hand.
    A little bell above the door tinkled as I
entered the store, reminding me of Eddie’s shop back in Portland. I
suffered a tiny pang of homesickness. How could a person be
homesick for two different places?
    “Morgan Bailey! Welcome to my shop. I’m so
thrilled you’ve come.” Sandra came bustling out from behind the
counter, wrapping me in a perfume scented hug. She might look
nothing like her sister, but she was just as effusive and had the
same sense of drama if her outfit was anything to go by.
    Sandra was dressed in a flowing white gown
with a scooped neck and long bell sleeves like something out of a
tale of Camelot. She must have been wearing some seriously good
underwear because her chest was boosted to the sky showing an
enormous amount of cleavage. Gold cords were wrapped around her
waist in Grecian style to match her gold sandals and she was
wearing a crimson cloak, of all things.
    A multitude of gold bracelets jangled on her
arm as she waved to indicate the rows upon rows of dragon
paraphernalia. “Isn’t it marvelous? I dreamed about a shop like
this for such a long time. Then my third husband died and left me
quite a lot of money. Voila! The Dragon’s Den was born.”
    It was quite something. I didn’t think I’d
ever seen so many items to do with dragons in one place in my life.
There were dragon statuettes, paper-mâché dragons, dragon
paperweights and paintings of dragons. An entire wall was devoted
to shelves of books about dragons. There was even a glass case with
a sign that claimed the artifacts inside the case were dragon
artifacts, though it mostly looked like a bunch of old bones and
bits of leather to me.
    “It’s great, Sandra. Really amazing.”
    She beamed at me. “Why thank you. It really
was a labor of love.”
    “Do you sell many dragons?”
    “Oh, much more online than in the shop, of
course. But you never know when a person will need a dragon.”
    “No, I suppose not,” I murmured. I wondered
what sort of emergency would require a person to hit the streets of
London searching out dragon statues. I also wondered vaguely how to
broach the subject of her abilities.
    “I suppose,” she said, leaning against the
counter, “you’re wondering how to broach the subject of my
magic.”
    I must have looked startled because she let
out a laugh very much like Cordelia’s. “It was written all over
your face. You’ve a very expressive face, Morgan. You show the
world everything you’re feeling.”
    Great. And here I thought I was a badass
vampire hunter with endless emotional fortitude. And calm. Heh.
    “Since you mention it, yes, I would like to
know more about your ability. How long have you been able to do ...
what you do?”
    “Oh, all my life,” she said. “I was still an
infant when I turned my rattle dragon shaped.”
    I found that