Pup's Arc

Chapter 6 of 6

The four of them came down the mountain and reached the dragon-skull tavern by dusk. Warm lights hung under the great bone jaw. Pup ducked to fit through the door. Then he tried to sit and knocked over a table. His crown scraped the ceiling beams. Everyone stared. Pup looked down at himself and remembered the problem. His old black and blue armor was gone. It never would have fit his new frame anyway. He wore only a loincloth, and half the tavern was watching. "I need clothes," Pup said. His voice boomed off the walls. "Anything. A tent, maybe." Fenrir laughed and searched a merchant's crates by the door. Gorbov held up a wool blanket that looked like a napkin against Pup's chest. Dale said nothing but pulled a hanging banner off the wall and offered it. None of it was close to big enough. Pup crossed the room, hunched and grabbing at scraps, and bumped hard into a huge man near the bar. The man did not stumble. He was tall and broad, with a short horned skull for a head and a black and red leather jacket hanging open over a chest that was half muscle, half bare bone. Chains looped his red jeans. He looked at Pup without any face to read. "Sorry," Pup said. "I'm still learning this size." "Malachar," the man said. Short and plain. "You wear a crown. So do I, in a way. Mine I can't take off." He tapped the horned skull. "A curse. I have kids at home. I want them to see my face again." Pup softened. "That's a good reason to be looking for something." "You're the biggest thing I've seen in years," Malachar said. He stepped closer. "And you look like you'd rather be smaller." Before Pup could answer, Malachar reached up, pulled Pup down by the shoulders, and kissed him. It was slow and sure. Pup froze, then leaned in. Heat rushed through his bones, the same heat as the crown, but backward. His frame began to shrink. His shoulders drew in. His feet lifted off the floor as he shortened. Malachar held the kiss the whole way down, one hand behind Pup's head, until Pup stood at his normal height again. Thirty years old, mohawk, tiny head tipped back. The loincloth now hung loose on a small man. Malachar let go. "There. You fit your clothes now." He almost sounded sorry. Pup's three partners rushed over, huge and worried. Pup touched his own chest, small again, and felt the crown still snug on his head. It had not fallen off. "It's still working," Pup said, staring at his hands. "But his kiss undid it." He looked up at Malachar's skull. "The crown changes size. Maybe it can break curses too." Malachar went very still. "Say that again."