by Meg Ripley
In no time flat, I’m pulling through the gate at Acadia. I spot Knox waiting for me, and I have to admit: in full daylight--even without his uniform--he looks super hot. He’s in a pair of relaxed jeans that fit snug in all the right places, along with a shirt that looks a little light for the weather, a leather jacket, and rugged hiking boots.
I find an empty parking spot--there are a lot fewer of them now, since it’s daylight--and pull into it, checking my hair and making sure I collected everything I’d need. I climb out of my car and by the time I’ve got it locked up and my bag slung over my shoulder, Knox is only a couple of yards away. I see him looking me over and realize that I’m not the only one who likes what they see.
“Good day for a hike,” he says, giving me a smile. For a second, something vaguely primal flashes in his eyes, and I have to wonder if I imagined it somehow.
“You do know that I’m going to spend the entire time trying to pry information out of you, right?” It only seems fair to give him warning, but I give him a little smile to go with it. I’m not usually coy or all that flirty with people I’m interviewing, but there’s something about Knox that makes me blush and flutter my eyelashes.
Up close, he’s more muscular than I realized the night before; I can almost make out his pecs against the fabric of his shirt. He’s definitely more ripped than I would imagine a park ranger to be, and I can’t help, just for a second, imagining what he would look like naked.
Shit! You stop that right now, Hannah Grant. I take a quick breath to try and stifle the heat that seems to be coursing through my veins, heading just south of my hips. What is wrong with me?
“I expected as much,” Knox says, keeping that little grin on his face. I notice something secretive in his eyes, and begin to wonder if maybe I’m onto something; perhaps some of the bizarre claims I’ve read about the NPS aren’t so outlandish after all. I can’t think of what else he could feel the need to hide, but I’ll play along for now.
“Well, shall we get started?” I open the thermos and take a swig of coffee. “I’ve got all day, but the sooner we start…”
“The sooner we’ll have it done and over with,” Knox finishes for me. “Let me show you my favorite trail.”
We start off in that direction and I fall into step with the ranger, running the questions through my head and trying to figure out where to begin.
“So, I’m assuming that as the manager of the park, you’re pretty well-versed in its history,” I say. “Oh! I almost forgot. Do you mind if I record this?”
“Not at all, go right ahead,” Knox replies. I take the recorder out of my bag and rattle off my standard disclaimer, holding the machine a few inches from Knox’s face for him to confirm his agreement to being recorded.
“So, as I was saying, I assume you’re pretty knowledgeable about the park’s history,” I begin again.
“It comes with the territory,” Knox says. “Is there something specific you want to know?”
“While I was doing my research, I came up sort of...confused, I guess, about some of the founders,” I say. “Obviously, the main people involved were Christopher Ellsworth, his father Christopher B. Ellsworth, and Theodore Davis, but there were others too, right?”
“Of course,” Knox nods. “What about them?”
“A lot of them don’t seem to have much in the way of public records,” I say. “I mean, there are notations that they contributed or lobbied to the cause, but when I tried to find some of their birth certificates, for example, I came up empty.”
Knox shrugs. “It was nearly a century ago, so keep in mind, many of the records might be a little shoddy.”
I frown at that, but I can’t think of a way to press the point further. “So, Knox, you’ve probably heard the strange rumors about Acadia, and the National Park Service in general. What are your thoughts?” I hurry a bit to keep up with him as we head up a little incline. I have to admit it’s beautiful out, even if it’s a bit chilly.
“The conspiracy wackos?” Knox gives me a sardonic grin. “Don’t tell me you’re doing some hit piece about how the people who created the national parks were all warlocks and freemasons.”
“No, no; I’m trying to do as straightforward a piece as possible,” I say quickly. “But it does come up, you know.”
“I know,” Knox nods. “It’s just always seemed so ridiculous to me--doesn’t it seem that way to you?”
“Well, we know a lot of the founding fathers were masons, or members of other fraternities,” I counter; I’m not even sure why I’m pressing the point at all, because a day ago, I found the whole idea ridiculous. “But obviously, the idea of building a bunch of parks to make it easier to sacrifice goats in private is a bit much to believe.”
“Glad to hear you think so,” Knox says, his voice rippling with amusement.
We come to a stopping point and I mention I need to sit down for a bit; I offer Knox some coffee and he waves me off. “I’ve actually got a picnic basket with some snacks hidden for us down the trail a bit,” he tells me. “Did you bring water, too, or just coffee?”
“I have a water bottle, and it’s full,” I tell him, and he nods his approval.
“Do you do much hiking, Hannah?”
I shrug off the question. “Some, but my job doesn’t leave me much time to.”
“How did you end up in this line of work, anyway?”
“Kind of by accident,” I explain. “I always liked asking questions, and I enjoyed writing back in school, so when it came time to pick a major, journalism sounded like the perfect path. By the time I graduated, I had honed my skills...and well, here I am.” I take another sip of my still-warm coffee and look at Knox speculatively. “How about you? When did you decide to become a park ranger?”
“I’ve wanted to be one since I was a kid,” Knox says. “I’ve always loved the outdoors; hunting, camping, fishing. I even took foraging classes when I was young. My parents liked living off the land, and when I turned twelve, we did a tour of the different national parks; that’s when I decided.”
I try to picture Knox as a twelve-year-old boy, foraging in the woods for mushrooms, berries or whatever, but it’s impossible. He’s far too masculine and fully-grown for me to imagine him any other way.
“Ready to move on?” he asks, gesturing toward the next leg of the trail.
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Sneak Peek of Playing With Fire
Dragons Of The Darkblood Secret Society, Book 1
Playing With Fire
I've always done my best to work hard and stand apart from my father's shadow, but it seemed like he was setting me up to fail. When he assigned me a new client, Adventure Isle—a run-down amusement park in the middle of nowhere—I knew I'd have to find the investor of a lifetime to succeed.
I was looking for a man with more money than sense. What I found was a man who had no money at all, but he did have a beautiful daughter, Shayne. A beautiful, ball-busting daughter that I wanted from the second I laid eyes on her.
She controls his money, but she controlled my heart from just about the moment we met. She called herself Mary and I never had a chance.
But just when I find myself in her bed, exactly where I want to be, she gets the call. Her father is dead; killed by a dragon.
And things are about to get a whole lot more complicated when the woman of my dreams learns that I'm a dragon, too.
1
With a long sigh, Jason Cross dropped into the brown leather chair at the furthest end of the lounge, loosening his tie with one hand and tossing a folder aside with the other. Before the next breath, a waitress appeared at his side with a drink in hand.
"Thank you, Mia." He gulped it down with a single swallow and signaled his need for another.
Mia’s sharp eyes flickered over his strained face and she nodded, sauntering back to the bar at the same deliberate pace she always used. She
did not work for tips and she couldn’t be fired, so she moved through life at her own speed. But she knew everybody’s drink, knew when to change it up, and knew when to lend a sympathetic ear.
"Hard day?"
Vincent Ryder helped himself to the seat across from Jason. Artist, speculator, investor, inventor, and general man about town, Vincent was a renaissance man who didn’t wait, or ask for, invitations. The constant smirk on his lips gave him an air of arrogance, but Jason wouldn’t call Vincent an arrogant man. He always backed up his big talk and he was a good man to have in your corner, so Jason was one of the few who didn’t find his smirk intolerable.
"Yeah, you could say that," Jason said.
Vincent reached for the discarded folder. "You have a new project." It wasn’t a question and he didn’t wait for Jason to invite him to have a look. He flipped through the first few pages, went back to the beginning, read them again, and then blinked at Jason.
"Exactly," Jason said.
"Why am I looking at a Ferris wheel and three children eating cotton candy?" He tilted his head. "This photo is at least twenty years old. Is that Ferris wheel still standing?"
"It’s twenty-five years old, and apparently, yes, it is."
Vincent frowned. "You couldn’t pay me to get on a Ferris wheel that old."
"Of course not. No one wants to ride anything that old. Keep looking. It gets better."
Vincent returned his attention to the folder, his frown becoming so deep it was almost comical as he studied the accompanying glossy photos. "Has your father gone crazy? This place should have been closed a decade ago."
At least a decade ago. Most of the rides were dilapidated; most of the booths had been boarded up. The remaining booths held "treasures" from a previous generation—knock-off toys and cheap stuffed animals that were losing the war with time. Frankly, the place looked more like a set from a horror movie about a theme park than a place anyone would want to take their family to.
"I don’t know. Maybe. This is apparently a completely legitimate account. What he was thinking when he took on the client, I can’t tell you."
"Maybe it’s some sort of hazing ritual?"
"After over a year in the company? It feels more like he’s setting me up for failure."
"Why would Damian want you to fail?"
The question brought him up short. Growing up in his family, the choice to become an investment banker really wasn't a choice at all. His great-grandfather had started the firm and the males of every generation to follow had just been funneled directly into the company. His cousins and brother took positions with perfunctory titles and almost no actual obligations, but generous compensation packages.
Jason chose a different route. Instead of going directly to his father after graduation, he took a job at a rival, albeit much smaller, firm. He took his mother’s maiden name and found a tiny apartment on the West Side, determined to rise through the ranks on his own. He imagined himself building an empire to rival his father’s and then his old man would finally be forced to respect him—to regard him as an equal.
Reality was a cold slap in the face six months later when his father’s firm bought his employer. The message was clear and rather than pushing back, Jason settled into his new job, did his work, and kept his head down.
His hard work paid off, and three years after his forced employment with the firm, he was on the cusp of a huge promotion—one he was certain he earned. The only person who knew his true identity was his father, and his father’s input was not necessary for this next step. The only thing that could thwart his aspirations was a giant, Ferris-wheel shaped blot on his record. A failure at this pivotal time could change the committee’s mind, delaying the promotion, or worse, tabling it indefinitely.
"Maybe he doesn’t want me to get the promotion. Maybe he’s still mad I snubbed him five years ago. Maybe he wants to teach me a lesson."
"What lesson is that?"
Jason accepted the second shot of whiskey from Mia and gulped it down, tingling from his nose to his toes. "That I’ll never be able to escape his hold. I’ll work where he wants me to work and I’ll do it on his terms at his pace and there’s not a damned thing I can do about it."
Vincent swirled his drink over his ice cubes and took a long swallow. "Maybe you should teach him a lesson."
"What do you mean?"
"If this is about controlling you, show the old man that it’s going to take a lot more than this, frankly transparent, attempt at professional sabotage."
Vincent flipped through the images and financial statements again, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. Mia appeared at Jason's side again, this time presenting him with a slim, black folder.
"What? No more whiskey?"
"You need to keep your wits about you," she said before returning to the shadows behind the bar.
Jason looked down at the folder, his fingers gliding over the embossed image of a medieval dragon, powerful and bulky, its wings like leather-encased wrought iron cages. Depictions of dragons from other cultures always amazed him with their willowy, serpentine bodies and squared, almost dog-like heads. There were rumors that those dragons still existed, but if so, they were deep in hiding, as encased in secrecy as Jason himself.
Jason opened the folder and looked at the paper inside. He scoffed and pulled it out of the folder, tossing it onto the table in front of him.
"The old man?" Vincent asked.
"Who else?" Jason craved another drink but Mia was right. He did need to keep his wits about him. “I just got away from him two hours ago, and he can't even wait until Monday to rub this in my face."
"Maybe he’ll tell you this was just a joke and give you the real file."
"Maybe." Jason stood and reached for the folder. "I don't know, though. He might have a pretty twisted sense of humor, but he's also the consummate businessman."
"He’s also a bit of a jackass."
"You said it, not me." Jason tucked the folder under his arm and marched to the black velvet curtain, nodding at the stern men who flanked it. Others would have had to show special identification or a written invitation, but for Jason, they pulled the braided gold ropes that parted the curtain without a word.
The echo from his steps reverberated off the stone walls as he wound his way up the curved staircase. He could no longer hear the sounds from the lounge and the curtains were long and thick enough that no light filtered through or around them to illuminate the stairwell. Instead, the white marble reflected the glow from candles set on heavy iron sconces embedded in the walls.
So few were permitted to even see the private sanctuary, yet, it was kept in pristine condition—the candles burning continuously; the sconces free from dust. As a child, Jason thought it must have been elves who worked so hard to keep the stairwell so perfectly.
At the top, Jason followed a mirrored hallway with a floor of the same highly polished white marble toward a pair of massive wooden doors. An infinite number of flames danced around him, countless reflections of light bouncing off the polished marble and right into his eyes.
When he finally reached the doors, he rested his hand on the handle and waited. Despite the specific invitation, Jason would never dream of entering until the voice bid him forward. Knocking was unnecessary. Jason only had to touch the handle, and someone on the other side would call out to him; a moment later, the doors would open as if by magic.
Jason had never seen anyone open the doors. Perhaps it was another elf who disappeared in a flash once Jason stepped inside. There were many mysteries about the Club that Jason had pondered as a child; most of which he’d solved as he matured, but this was one that he didn't want to resolve.
As Jason had grown out of his young childhood and his family mourned the loss of his mother, his father had spent more and more time secluding himself away at the Club, hiding away among the other members of the Darkblood Society, trying to make it all disappear. During those difficult years, he only saw his father when he was invited
to the big double doors and the unknown voice from the other side would welcome him inside. The voice was warm. Friendly. Even kind. Like his father used to be. He wanted to preserve that, to keep that feeling without knowing all of the details of it.
Even now, with the tinge of anger in his mind, Jason waited for the voice to come through the doors; he waited to see his father in a context that was so completely different from their daily, professional interactions.
"Come."
The doors opened, revealing Damian in his huge leather armchair, an ankle resting casually on his knee, a glass of sherry in his hand. Despite the warmth of the late summer evening, a fire raged in the fireplace, casting a glow over his father’s aquiline features while long shadows climbed the walls.
"Why didn’t you come downstairs and say hello to everyone?" Jason asked as the doors whispered closed behind him.
Damian chuckled softly and took a sip from his drink, amused in his way by his son’s joke. Jason took his customary place across from his father and dropped the folder on the small table between them. When Jason visited as a child, the table always held a chess board. Now they played a different game, but Jason didn’t know all the rules.
"Do you carry your work everywhere you go?" Damian asked. "This might be why you haven’t had much luck with the ladies."
Jason ignored the barb. "I was actually in the middle of some important research. I already have a lead on an investor."
"Is that right?" His eyebrows knitted together for a moment and then thinned; a gesture so small, so quick, that anyone else might have missed it. "I’m glad to hear it, son. The sooner you put this one to bed, the sooner we will be celebrating your promotion."
