Sinister Magic: An Urban Fantasy Dragon Series (Death Before Dragons #1) - Lindsay Buroker Page 0,14

among those who you deem capable enough to deal with your shrapnel.”

“I do not seek a relationship, thank you very much. I didn’t come here because I need a hookup.”

“That’s not what I was suggesting.” Her tone was dry now.

Were therapists supposed to be dry? I thought it was a requirement that they radiate love and compassion.

“Is there anything else you want to talk about?” Mary asked.

“No.” I glanced at the clock. We still had more than a half hour left, but I needed to get across town, so I didn’t mind quitting early. “I have stuff to do.”

She hesitated, then pulled out a card. “Here’s my cell phone number if you need to call or text. I don’t always answer, but if you leave a message, I’ll get back to you soon.”

I’d gotten a breathing technique to use, so I didn’t plan to come back for another appointment, much less call her at home, but I accepted the card. “Do you always give the weirdos you see this much access to you?”

“No, but you seem like someone who may need after-hours help.”

What did that mean? That she thought I was a suicide candidate?

“I can’t be more messed up than the guy chanting to himself in the waiting room.”

“Those are song lyrics, I’ve been told. If you want to schedule another appointment, Tara can help.” Mary smiled. “I hope you will.”

“Because the rent is due soon? You can’t possibly have found any of that productive.”

“It’s about what you find productive. But I think you should have started talking to someone the first time you lost a friend because of your work.”

“The person I would have talked to was the person I lost.”

5

“Yes. I sent the pictures.” I made a face at the phone, specifically the insurance agent on the phone. This was some kind of senior agent that my case had been escalated to. “You sent someone out to see the crash site, right? I’m still trying to arrange a tow.”

Arranging it wasn’t the problem. Paying the huge fee for a truck to drive from the nearest city out along that dirt road was another matter. If the insurance wouldn’t cover it, the wreck could stay there.

A car honked, almost drowning out the reply. I was cutting across Capitol Hill on foot to make my meeting with this Lieutenant Sudo, and the freeway traffic roared nearby.

“How did it get in a tree?” the agent asked, suspicion lacing her tone.

I wished I’d opened with reporting a tornado strike. Oregon wasn’t known for tornadoes, but an internet search had revealed that a couple had touched down there before, if decades apart. It seemed too late to change the story now, especially when I’d already tried two.

“I was off-roading and I had to swerve to avoid hitting—” a dragon, “—a bear. The Jeep flipped and rolled and bounced off a log or something—I couldn’t quite see what. I was thrown out before it ended up in the trees.”

“This is the fourth accident you’ve been in in three years.”

“I know, but I’m in a dangerous line of work.”

“You said you were off-roading.”

“I was. It wasn’t recreational.”

“And what line of work did you say you’re in?”

“I didn’t. It’s top secret. I’m a government contractor.”

“I don’t think we can cover you anymore, ma’am.”

“That’s fine, but you have to pay out on this claim. That’s why I’ve been paying you every month.” That and because the auto loan required it.

The line went dead.

I resisted the urge to whip out Chopper and take out my aggressions on a fire hydrant. Was I supposed to eat it on the Jeep? I still owed twenty grand. My combat bonuses went to paying off informants, buying ammo and gas, and replacing the gear I lost in fights, not making extra car payments.

With an angry huff, I reached the Starbucks Reserve Roastery on Pike and stalked through the big wood doors. It was packed, as usual, and I grimaced at the noise of dozens of conversations, voices raised to be heard over the grinding and transporting of beans through the elaborate equipment on display. This was Colonel Willard’s favorite place, so we always met here, but I was less inclined to endure the hordes of tourists and scents of burning coffee—people who actually liked coffee called it roasting, but it smelled burnt to me—for some substandard replacement contact.

I spotted Sudo immediately. He wore a suit and tie rather than his army uniform, but the short buzz cut screamed military, and he had