The dragon crossed his legs and smiled at me across his fake cherrywood desk. A brass nameplate perched toward the front read, "Cecil Hupper, Sales Associate," as did the nametag pinned, slightly askew, to his jacket lapel. Cecil looked like any other used car salesman: cheap, polyester-blend suit, bolo necktie, working the comb-over. A little short, a lot round, he’d blend in with most crowds unremarked. As far as the eye could tell, he was nothing out of the ordinary.

But I knew what he was. I’d been in Corpus Christi, Texas for the better part of the week, staking out this dealership. I had met at least half a dozen patrons who'd reeked of the burnt umber of dragon magic, driving off the lot, ensorcelled, in lemons that they'd bought at fully twice the Kelley Blue Book value. Good luck making lemonade out of those.

All signs pointed toward Cecil, here. He’d been hired by the struggling dealership eight months before and, in that short amount of time, their profits had shot up by 346%. A placard in the lobby had listed him as Salesman of the Month for the last seven months running, and the boom in sales showed no sign of slowing. I was here to change all that.

My name is Georgia Llewellyn, and I’m a dragon-hunter. Yes, really. What, there’s no such thing as dragons? That’s what they want you to think. Hell, that’s what I want you to think, or so I’m told by the mucky-mucks who recruited me into The Order of St. George. The first rule of Fight Club is blah blah blah. No point screwing up John Q. Public’s worldview with magic and dragons and other fairy tale staples, right?

Fact is, there are probably more dragons in the world than even the Order knows about. If only they would lie low in their human forms and resist the temptation to manipulate the world through magic, we'd have no reason to hunt them down. But more often than not, they eventually cave to their natures and start using. When that happens, free will and the laws of physics are violated, and the natural patterns of nature are corrupted. The Order exists to protect mankind from the chaos that would inevitably result. Even if mankind doesn't realize it needs protecting. Especially because mankind doesn’t realize it needs protecting.

I studied the scribbles on the notepad that Cecil had pushed in front of me. "I don't know," I said, frowning and chewing at my bottom lip. "I was hoping for a little lower payment, you know?" I gave him what I hoped passed for a damsel-in-distress expression and re-crossed my legs, inching the already short skirt further up my thighs and peeling off what felt like half my thigh on the hard, orange plastic.

"Well," he patronized, "I might be able to do a little something more for you, darlin'. Y'all just sit tight now while I go talk to the boss-man, see what kinda deal I can work for a pretty little thing like you."

"Oh, could you?" I asked, batting the baby-blues at him. "I just don't know what I'll do if I get stranded out there one more time." His smiled widened, turned a little predatory around the edges. He was already scenting the kill of another checkbook, felled by a ridiculously overpriced sale. Cecil stood and tugged his jacket closed around the paunch of his belly before sliding around the desk and out of the cluttered office, no doubt to go laugh with "the boss-man" about the poor, stupid twit they were about to soak.

As soon as he disappeared around the corner, I sized up the office, looking for the best way to proceed. The room was decently sized and had come standard issue, with two windows facing the parking lot, a couple of file cabinets, Cecil’s desk, and the two plastic guest chairs in front of it. Even with such short tenure, though, Cecil had managed to fill it up. The file cabinets were stacked high and deep with bobble-heads of sports figures; a few bobble-heads sat second-string on the window-sill. Next to the file cabinets there was a wastebasket shaped like a gorilla, holding six umbrellas with various animal-heads for handles. The wall to the side of the desk had a shelf that held model cars, a plastic green tractor, a stuffed giraffe, an assortment of Rubik’s cubes, and a small army of those cheap, ceramic figurines that come out of the boxes of Red Rose teabags. The desk, minus the small space left clear for signing paperwork, was stacked high with baseball cards, magazines, newspapers, and the occasional brightly-colored feather, like the ones on those carnival roach-clips.

You know that whole thing about dragons hoarding treasure? Yeah, that part’s pretty much true, in spirit if not in absolute fact. Remove gold coins and oversized gemstones from the picture and substitute all manners of pop culture crap, and you’ve got the general idea. They can’t help it; they’re compulsive collectors. Cecil was a dragon, all right. A dragon with absolutely no taste whatsoever.

There were no personal photos amongst all of the effluvia. Either Cecil preferred to keep to himself around his colleagues, or he wasn't one of those dragons who went in for draconic-human relations. Good. I hated leaving unsuspecting family members behind, never knowing what had become of their loved ones. I sure as hell couldn't tell them.

Eeling out of the chair (and losing a few more skin cells in the process), I slid four button-sized stones and a tube of stretchy glue out of my purse and stuck a little of the gummy substance on each rock. Picking my way around the clutter, I stuck one between the windows behind the desk and circled clockwise around the office, placing one on each of the side walls and one on the office door. "Misces", I whispered.

There was a muffled phfffft as each of the stones wisped into white smoke and sank into its respective surface. A glyph glowed faintly over each of the four spots for a couple of seconds before fading out of sight altogether. The spell armed and ready, I sat back down to wait for the dragon.

As I waited, the familiar tones of the Darth Vader music from Star Wars rang out of my purse. Mom. Fuckin’ A. I could ignore it, but she'd only call again in five minutes. And every five minutes after that, until I finally answered it or called her back. And she'd leave a message Every. Damn. Time.

Closing my eyes and stifling a sigh, I flipped open the phone. "Hi, Mom."

"Hi, Sweetheart. I was just checking, do you need us to pick you up at the airport tomorrow? We could swing over." Mom-to-English translation: You better remember that tomorrow is your father’s birthday, and put in an appearance.

"No, I’m all set," I told her. "I left my car in the parking garage at the airport. I’ll drive over." Just like the last five times you asked. "Besides, I have to take a meeting when I get into Hartford."

"A meeting? But you’re on vacation." How the woman could take a simple declarative sentence like that and imbue it with such accusation and disappointment was beyond me. Did the skill come standard with the mom package, or had she upgraded? Maternal Guilt-Trip 2.0?

"I'll be on vacation as soon as my meeting is over."

"Everyone will be here tomorrow evening, you know, for your father's birthday. He’s really excited to have the whole family together." More like Mom was really excited to have the whole family over, and Dad would just as soon watch the History Channel and smoke his pipe, but whatever.

"I know, Mom." I could feel my left eye starting to twitch. "I'll be there by five."

"Well, I just hope you won't be late..." Her tone clearly said that my punctuality was suspect. "That security firm works you too hard. How can you have any time for family or a social life, working those hours and traveling all the time?"

Here we go. "My social life is just fine, Mother." I consciously relaxed my fingers before I crushed the cell phone into little plastic splinters. "Hey, did you find that book that Dad wanted?" Sometimes a little misdirection worked…

"Your father and I worry about you, traipsing all over God-knows-where."

And… sometimes not.

"We never know where you’re going or when you’re supposed to be back," she continued. "And there’s no one at home to make sure you get home safely…" she trailed off suggestively.

"Twenty-first century, meet Mom. Mom, twenty-first century. Why don't you two take a few moments and get acquainted?"

"Is there something wrong with having a family, as well as a career? Your sisters manage just fine..."

I tuned out of the all-too-familiar lecture as I heard footsteps start down the corridor. "I have to go. Work. I'll see you tomorrow." Dragon-hunting and arguing with Mom. Welcome to my life.

I snapped the phone shut on her and tucked it back into my bag, making sure I shut it off this time. The hilt of my sword was cool to the touch where my fingers brushed it in passing. I left my hand inside the bag as Cecil plodded back into the office.

"Well now, I think you're going to like what I have for you, little lady," he said, shoe-horning himself into his desk chair. "I talked it over with the boss, and he was a little squeamish, but I told him you were a sweet little thing and in a terrible need for reliable transportation, and I was able to talk Marv into extending you a loan for six years, which should get your payments down to three hundred and eighty-five dollars a month." He beamed at me like he was Ed McMahon, holding a big, fake, cardboard check.

"Three hundred and eighty-five?" For a freaking seven year-old Ford Explorer? Riiight. I somehow managed not to squeak. "That's still a little bit high..." I let my voice trail off uncertainly, inviting him to try and persuade me.

"Aw now, that's a good price for a nice vehicle like that," he argued, pronouncing the 'h' in vehicle. He leaned forward, his arms on the desk. "And I think you'd look right pretty in that color."

God. He needed slaying for the rampant, mutant, ninja sexism, if not for being a dragon. "I'm just not sure..."

Cecil caught and held my gaze. "Think about how nice it'll be not to have to worry about maintaining that old rattle-trap you've been driving around in."

And there it was. That acrid taste of burning metal at the back of my throat, with an accompanying tug at my mind. A silent movie reel started up in my head, little images of me driving down a beach-lined highway, wind whipping my hair and a big grin on my face. Handsome men waving at me as I drove by, sexy and confident in my new vehicle. It was every bad car commercial I'd ever flipped the channel past, all rolled into one. Originality and subtlety weren’t real high up on Cecil's list of priorities, apparently.

"Now don't you think you might be able to swing a little payment like that?" he cajoled.

My fingers closed tight around the sword hilt. "Secernis!" I called, and the glyphs around the room flared to life, locking the room away from the sight and sound of anyone outside it. I stood up as I pulled the hilt out of my bag, sending a concentration of will down through my arm and into the sword. A blade of cold blue energy sprang from the silver in my hand, stretching three feet from base to tip.

"I’m thinking not."