Page 23 of Song of the Heart Scale (The Dragon’s Ballad #3)

ARYA

I was finally starting to master the basics of this baffling modern world.

I could use a cell phone without flinching (most of the time), cross a street without shrieking at the oncoming metal beasts (though I still preferred to scowl at them as a warning), and apply contour like a professional (because I was one).

Angie had even taught me how to make toast without assuming the toaster was possessed by demons.

But for all my triumphs, one thing remained consistent: Monica.

Monica, the woman who refused to take no for an answer. Monica, who called me nearly every other day asking—no, demanding—that I return to “the set” for some ludicrous new stunt job.

“Absolutely not,” I said into the phone as I strutted down Hollywood Boulevard in my heeled boots, which Angie assured me were “hella cute” and absolutely impractical. “I will not be diving from rooftops or throwing myself from mechanical dragons.”

“It’s a motorcycle, Cat!” Monica snapped on the other end. “And you don’t have to ride it, just stand near it and scream. Easy day, good money.”

“If I wished to scream in terror, I would simply review my current living situation,” I muttered.

She sighed so hard I could hear her eyes roll. “Cat—”

“Arya.”

“Fine. Arya . This is the fourth opportunity you’ve passed on. You do realize you're throwing away a reputation you’ve spent years making, right?”

“Oh, how tragic for her,” I said sweetly. “If she returns from my world bearing even half as much dignity as I brought with me, she will be far better off than expected.”

“What?”

“Good day, Monica.”

I hung up without ceremony, earning a confused look from a man in a Spider-Man suit standing on the corner, posing for photos with tourists. He waved at me with one gloved hand. I stiffly waved back.

Hollywood was, in short, madness. A street lined with stars stamped with names in the ground (none of which I recognized), a bizarre array of people wearing costumes, blaring music that assaulted the ear, and enough flashy signage to summon a seizure.

I wasn’t sure why Angie insisted this was a good place to “people-watch” or that it had “good energy,” but I humored her.

I needed distraction.

That was when I saw her.

She sat at a folding table draped in dark velvet, her wild, gray hair adorned with what I assumed were chicken bones, glitter, and a scrunchie. A sign hung above her that read:

“Madame Vexalia: Real Witch. $20 Readings. Past Lives, Love Potions, and Portals.”

My breath caught.

Portals.

I froze. The tourists kept walking. Madame Vexalia picked her teeth with a long pinky nail and glanced up, meeting my gaze.

“You there!” I called, marching across the sidewalk. “You. Witch.”

“That’s Madame Vexalia, honey,” she croaked, her voice raspy like a tavern wench who smoked too many pipe leaves.

“I require your services.”

She blinked, then smiled broadly, revealing several teeth that gleamed suspiciously. “Of course you do, sugar. Sit down, sit down. You looking for love, fame, or vengeance?”

“Passage.”

She blinked again. “Say what, now?”

I leaned across the table. “I am not of this world. I was transported here through magical means—a portal, to be exact. I need to return.”

Madame Vexalia slowly lowered her Diet Coke. “Oh. You’re one of those method actresses. I see.”

“I am not acting!” I hissed. “I am Arya Ryder, daughter of the Minister of Rites of Elaria.”

She quirked a brow. “El-where-a-now?”

I slowly inhaled and fought to contain my rising ire. “A different realm. One with dragons.”

The witch tutted and slowly shook her head. “Oh, baby, you got the premium package of delusion, don’t you? Alright, let’s see what we got.”

She flipped over a few cards from a tattered deck. One depicted a goat wearing a crown while another featured a sword stabbing a banana. I had questions.

“This one here,” she said, pointing at the banana impalement, “means there’s blockage in your chakra... or possibly your plumbing.”

I scowled. “My plumbing is irrelevant. Can you open a portal or not?”

She squinted at me. “Depends. You got cash?”

I reached into the small handbag Angie insisted I carry and retrieved a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. I still hated this paper currency, but it was better than those loud square boxes called Venmo. “Here.”

“Alright, then.” She pocketed it with suspicious speed. “Now, hold my hands.”

I hesitated.

“Trust is key, sugar.”

With great reluctance, I grasped her hands. They were sticky.

She closed her eyes. “Oh, mighty spirits of the veil, open the door between dimensions and show us the path home!”

The table wobbled. She started humming. A pigeon landed nearby and cooed ominously.

“Do you feel that?” she whispered.

“A breeze. And indigestion.”

She gasped. “The portal is near. ”

I sat up straighter. “Where?”

She pointed. “There. In the alley behind the Yogurtland.”

I squinted. “Are you certain?”

“Crystal.”

I stood and started marching toward the alley.

“Wait!” she called. “You need the sacred incense!”

She shoved a burning stick at me. It smelled like scorched marshmallows and regret.

“Wave it in the air and chant 'Whirligig Bananapants' three times.”

I fixed the witch with a steely glare. “You cannot be serious.”

She met my eyes with wild sincerity. “That’s how the veil knows you're ready.”

For a moment, I considered simply walking away. Then I remembered the day I first fell into this world—the storm, the water, the face I now knew belonged to Cat. I remembered the ache of not belonging.

And so, I lit the incense. I waved it like a deranged priestess. And I chanted:

“Whirligig Bananapants.”

People stared. A child giggled.

“Whirligig Bananapants.”

A passing man muttered something about Hollywood being weird.

“Whirligig Bananapants.”

The wind picked up slightly.

And nothing happened.

Absolutely nothing.

I turned slowly back to Madame Vexalia. “You lied.”

She shrugged. “Or maybe the spirits are on their lunch break.”

“You tricked me!”

“Honey, this is Hollywood. Trickin' folks is the economy.”

“You will rue this day!” I snapped.

The witch breezily waved one bangled arm in the air. “I already rue it, baby. My rent's due.”

I stormed off, still clutching the smoldering incense and trying to figure out if I could reasonably file charges for magical fraud. By the time I reached the street corner, I saw Angie waiting beside her car, watching me with raised brows and crossed arms.

I shoved the incense into the nearest trash can. “Please don't ask.”

“I won't,” she replied, though a grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. “But... did you seriously chant something about bananas?”

“It was part of the spell. ”

“Sure it was. You okay?”

“No. But I will be.”

She patted the hood of the car. “Come on, let’s get tacos. You’ve earned them.”

I sighed and climbed into the passenger seat. “Fine. But next time someone offers to open a portal behind a frozen dessert establishment, stop me.”

Angie smirked. “Deal, princess. Deal.”