by Meg Ripley
"I was hoping I'd run into you tonight. Did you find anyone to invest in the theme park?" Vincent asked.
"No. I met the owner last week and I've been working on a proposal but I don't have any investors lined up yet. I need to know what I'm going to say first."
"Isn't it easier to make a pitch if you know who you're pitching to?"
"Ideally, you want to know your audience. But it's going to take a special kind of investor. And I don't know who that is yet."
"How special are we talking?"
Jason sighed. "Very special. The park hasn't turned a profit in over a decade. Most of the rides should be scrapped. I don't know if the concession stands can pass a state inspection and it's going to take a whole lot of money just to get the place presentable."
"So, convince the old man to sell the land to a developer while he still can and retire. I'm sure he has a family that loves him and wants to spend his golden years with him."
"Trust me, that's not an option. But I'm not completely without hope. It's been there for over a hundred years, so it can be registered with the historical society."
"Ooh, that'll bring in the big bucks."
"Did you just want to bust my balls tonight?"
"No, actually. I think I might be able to help you out. I was recently in contact with an old client of mine and I think his interests are right in line with your current dilemma." Vincent slipped his right hand into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a card, holding it out to Jason. Jason took it carefully, running his thumb over the embossed text. "Get in touch with this guy. I've known him for a while. He has more money than he knows what to do with and he's known for his whimsical investment choices."
"Whimsical investment choices?" Jason asked.
"The man is eccentric as hell and loves to throw his money at really strange projects. I can't guarantee that he'd want in on this, but he's probably your best bet right now."
"Thank you," Jason said, tucking the card into his pocket. "I really appreciate this, Vincent."
CHAPTER FOUR
Two days later, Jason sat before of a front gate that was even more ostentatious than the one that was at the Club, leaning slightly out of his window so that he could talk into the speaker attached to a river rock pillar supporting the gate.
"This is Jason Cross, I have an appointment with Mr. Simmons."
"Yes, sir. Mr. Simmons is expecting you. Please drive through the gates to the front and a valet will assist you."
The gates swung open and Jason started through, already taken aback by the completely overdone atmosphere of the home. Less than an hour from the city, the estate managed to feel like it was in another world. Though lovely in its own way, the sprawling home, somewhat crowded landscaping, and elaborate fountain at the front of the house had the overwhelming sense of "new money;" that feeling that Mr. Simmons had crafted the opulence for himself rather than growing into it throughout his life.
Just as the voice that came to him through the speaker had stated, a man in a pristine suit and white gloves stood on the bottom-most step of the home, his hands clasped in front of him as he awaited Jason's car. Even before Jason could turn his engine off, the man was opening his car door and gesturing for him to get out.
Jason climbed the steps of a home that was obviously only a few decades old but had been built to resemble an antebellum mansion and searched for a doorbell. When he didn't find one, he reached up and used a massive bronze knocker shaped like a pineapple to announce his presence.
"This is getting fun already," Jason whispered to himself, starting to see the first glimpses of the eccentricities of this man that Vincent had promised.
Only a moment after he knocked, the door opened. He half-expected there to be no one standing on the other side just as it was when he would visit his father in the den at the Club, but as he stepped forward, he noticed that a woman in a high-necked dress and frilly white apron stood almost behind the door.
"Mr. Simmons is waiting for you in the parlor," the woman said in a soft monotone, her eyes not moving from a doorway across the massive grey marble foyer.
Jason looked in the direction of her gaze and then back at her.
"Thank you," he said.
The woman nodded and moved around Jason to close the door. He turned to walk toward the parlor and noticed a statue of a dragon sitting at the base of the tremendous staircase that led up out of the foyer. He stared at it for a moment and then continued toward the parlor, wondering what he might discover when he entered the new room.
As soon as he stepped in, he noticed two more dragon statues flanking the inside of the door. These were slightly different from the one in the foyer, made of red marble rather than the dark material of the first. He was staring down at them when he heard a voice from further inside the room.
"Mr. Cross, I presume?"
Jason looked up and saw a man slightly younger than Mr. Kelsey standing near a cold, empty fireplace. He leaned on the mantle with one hand, the other tucked into the black lapel of a red smoking jacket embroidered with the willowy, curvy shapes of serpentine dragons.
"Um," Jason said, unsure of how he was supposed to respond to this man. "Yes. You can call me Jason."
The man who Jason assumed was Mr. Simmons turned to him slowly and brought the cigarette grasped between his fingers to his lips. Jason braced himself for some sort of dramatic billowing smoke display, but instead, Mr. Simmons took a bite out of the cigarette, chewed it for a moment, and then gave Jason a smile.
"Bubblegum," he said happily, starting toward him.
Jason couldn’t help but smile. Vincent had warned him that Mr. Simmons was eccentric, but he was proving to be even more unusual than Jason could have prepared for.
"I really appreciate you letting me come to your home to meet with you," Jason said, extending his hand as Mr. Simmons approached.
"Absolutely. Call me Neil. Let's sit."
Jason followed Neil's gesture to sit at one of the overstuffed chairs that rested on either side of a glass coffee table.
"Alright. Neil, I know that we spoke briefly on the phone, but I wanted to give you more information about this investment opportunity."
Jason placed his briefcase at his feet and released the latch on the top, reaching in to pull out the folder that contained his presentation about the park.
"Absolutely. Let's walk."
Neil bounded back up out of his chair and started toward the doors, removing the smoking jacket as he went so that he could hang it on a hook on the wall that Jason noticed was also shaped like a dragon. He was picking up on a theme in the house and it was making him distinctly uncomfortable.
They walked back through the foyer and Neil led Jason up the massive staircase to a hallway at the top. He turned into the first doorway and Jason followed him, trying to give the pitch that he had prepared, but found it harder to deliver effectively without the benefit of the pictures, news clippings, and charts that he had carefully tailored to demonstrate that this could be a potentially lucrative investment choice.
Jason felt like he was having to stretch a little bit further; be a bit more dramatic with how he spoke about the park and all of the opportunities that he saw for it, even if he wasn't entirely sure that he believed what he was saying himself. He wanted to believe it, though. He wanted to believe that he could help Mr. Kelsey take all of the enthusiasm, nostalgia, and faith that he had inside himself and somehow use it to transform his beloved park.
"This is my favorite spot in the house," Neil said.
Jason had been so busy talking that he hadn't really paid attention to his surroundings, but when he glanced up he realized they were walking through not a single room, but a long gallery that looked as though it had been crafted out of several rooms by removing dividing walls. Paintings covered the walls and Jason noticed that nearly all of them featured dragons. In the center of the wall to his left was a massive mural of a maze that looked remarkably like the one outside of the Clu
b.
A twinge of discomfort twisted in his stomach and Jason tried his best to get a glimpse of the inside of Neil's wrist. Now that he had removed his smoking jacket, Neil was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, which would have allowed Jason to see whether or not Neil had a specific tattoo on his wrist, indicating that he was one of them. The older man shifted and Jason saw both wrists. Neither had the mark, which meant that he wasn't a dragon himself. That meant that he knew far too much about Jason's world, and that put him, and Jason, in danger.
"Is that alright with you, Jason?"
Jason jumped slightly at the sound of Neil's question, realizing that he had been so lost in his own thoughts that he hadn't heard what the older man had been saying to him.
"I'm sorry. What were you saying?" Jason asked.
"I was saying that you have me fairly well convinced of the whole thing, but I am no longer the only one who makes decisions about my investments. It seems that I have made one or two hasty decisions that my progeny did not appreciate, and now I've promised that I won't make any more investments without approval. You will have to impress Shayne and get approval before I can go ahead."
"And Shayne is?" Jason asked.
Neil gave a sigh and looked up at the huge painting with a spark of longing in his eyes that pushed Jason even further into his nervousness.
"Not nearly as easy to please as I am."
If you enjoyed this preview of Playing With Fire: Dragons Of The Darkblood Secret Society, Book 1, you may download the entire story HERE. Available with Kindle Unlimited.
Sneak Peek of Ranger Knox: Shifter Nation – Werebears Of Acadia, Book 1 By Meg Ripley
I’m pledged--as every shifter is--to keeping our kind and its history a secret.
Because of my role as head ranger at Acadia National Park, as well as the Alpha of my clan, I have the responsibility of making sure no outsiders know about the real reason why our park came to be. Hannah, a journalist who's been snooping around doing research for an exposé, is most definitely an outsider, no matter how much the ursine part of my brain keeps insisting that she should belong to me.
She should be mine. Except she’s not a bear--she’s not any kind of shifter. How could I want her? Is it possible that a human...could be my mate?
And how will I keep her from unraveling the mystery that has kept us safe from the public eye for generations?
Chapter 1 – Hannah
I pull into the spot where my Airbnb host said I could leave my car and look around me. It’s my first time in Bar Harbor, and though my surroundings look more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen on the Travel Channel, I’m not here to admire the foliage: I have an ulterior motive. Sure, the magazine could force me to use my vacation time, but they couldn’t keep me from writing while I did.
I’ve been trying to work my way up to a full-time editorial position with New World for about a year, and when HR told me that I had to either take my vacation time or lose it, I hatched a plan to work on something while I was away. The magazine has its one-thousandth issue coming out in a month, and I figured--I hoped--that an exposé on the controversial history behind the National Park Service would put me in a better position to get ahead. So, I scheduled my vacation time and booked an Airbnb in Bar Harbor, a quaint little tourist town right outside of Maine’s Acadia National Park, and started to plan my research.
I’d gotten the idea from a piece I’d read recently, which delved into how the National Park Service came into existence. Of course, there had always been green spaces that rich people bought up and set aside as conservation areas, but there was something in the article about the founders--something I couldn’t put my finger on--that struck me as a little odd. Aside from that, I’d come across these wacko conspiracy theory websites claiming the national parks were actually set up for some kind of nefarious purpose. The theories I’d read speculated they were being used as reserves for fossil fuels or gold and other precious metals; the most interesting and least likely to be true theory was that the lands had been set aside by freemasons and other occult groups in power for the sake of performing secret ceremonies.
I grab my laptop case and backpack off the passenger seat and check my phone to make sure I’m on time. Mary, the woman whose house I’m staying in, seems to be a fairly accommodating host, based on the messages we’ve been exchanging, anyway. Her place is more accessible than the hotels in Bar Harbor, and considering it’s the height of foliage season, much cheaper. I lock my car out of habit, even though I can’t imagine anyone on the sleepy little street stealing from me.
It’s chillier than I thought it would be, so I hurry up to the front door of the little house, pulling my denim jacket tight around me. I knock on the door and wait, fidgeting as I look around. Maine is one of those places that’s stunning when you’re looking at it in pictures or video, but if you’re standing outside in late September, it’s chilly and damp, making it hard to appreciate the beauty of the yellow, orange, and red leaves on the trees.
“You must be Hannah!” Mary looks like someone’s mom: gray-streaked chestnut hair, wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, wearing a matching pink sweatsuit with 80s-era floral appliques stitched on the chest and pant legs. “Quick, come inside, dear; it’s getting cold out there.”
I follow her through the door and make small talk about my drive up as she gives me a tour of the house. The kitchen has plenty of cast iron and a gas-powered stove--according to Mary, it’s more reliable than electric in the winters. Mary leads me upstairs to my room, explaining about the bathroom and how she got a tankless, gas-powered water heater installed so that she’d never have to wait for hot water.
She shows me to the guest room, giving me the chance to unpack and get settled, but instead, I pull out my laptop and search for the Acadia National Park website. I chose it as the place for my work-cation because Acadia was one of the first national parks established by the NPS; I’d hoped it would be a good place to start.
I look over the material I’ve already assembled about the park, thinking about how I’ll kick off my investigation. Well, the first thing to do would be to get there and check the place out, I decide as I examine the maps of the area. Mary’s place is about two miles away--close enough that, in theory, I could walk there, but if I did, I may not have enough energy left to explore the place. It’s taken me all day to get up to Maine and it’s already late afternoon; I should probably wait until the morning, but if I want to get a real feel for the place, I’m going to need to check it out when there aren’t as many visitors there. I change into some warmer clothes--a thicker pair of jeans, a turtleneck sweater and a beanie--and I tell Mary that I’m off to run some errands.
I get back into my car and pull up the directions to the park. I’ve got about another hour or so before it’s too dark to really see, but I’ve got a heavy flashlight with me, so I’m not too worried.
As I pull into the park a few minutes later, I fumble through the glove compartment in search of the one-week pass I’d ordered online before my trip and hand it to the ranger at the gate. I take a second look and have to admit he’s pretty hot; he fills out that uniform really well with those broad shoulders of his. His deep brown hair and beard are cut short, and he’s got strikingly bright green eyes.
“Just to let you know, the visitor center is closed for the day, but the park is open twenty-four hours,” he tells me. “If you need any help, there are signs posted just about everywhere telling you how to get in touch with the rangers.”
“Thanks,” I tell him, taking back my visitor pass. Maybe I can interview him about Acadia, or at least get an official quote.
“I’m on duty for the rest of night, so I’ll be checking to make sure that everyone gets out. If you plan on staying late, give me a call up here at the gate and I’ll keep folks from coming after you to make sure you’re not dead or lost,” he says with a little smile.
I grin back at him. “That seems normal,” I say, not quite sarcastic. “Give me the nu
mber, and I’ll be sure to let you know that I’m okay.” I program the number into my phone and the ranger passes me through the gate, heading back to the warmth of the guard house while I pull forward.
I don’t see many cars in the lot, but that makes sense; it’s starting to get dark, and it’s chilly, too--enough so that I’m glad I thought to change into warmer clothes. I grab my flashlight and make sure I’ve got my phone and a few other things in my purse, and climb out of the car.
As I’m walking towards one of the hiking trails, I have to admit, the park is genuinely beautiful. It’s almost the end of the foliage season, and I could see why outdoorsy people would come to the park at the peak of it. I step onto the path and breathe in the scent of dried leaves, loamy soil, and the shoreline, trying to get a feel for everything around me.
I start wandering, falling into a kind of rhythm that helps me to think. It’ll be easier to get more intel when it’s daylight, but as night begins to fall around me, there’s something about the quiet of the place that makes it a little easier to understand why people might conjure up all these bizarre theories.
Right then, something shifts in the air, and I get the sense that I’m being watched, but I can’t see anyone when I look around to prove it to myself. Even though I’ve been a journalist for a few years, I’ve never really been in any kind of dangerous situation before; there’s no reason anyone would be after me, anyway. Right?
The deeper I get into the wooded areas around the hiking trail, the more the eerie feeling starts to weigh on me. Maybe it’s just campers or rangers working, but a primal part of me feels like there’s something else at play.
Something predatory.
I try to remain calm by reminding myself there aren’t all that many predators in this area; black bears and coyotes are out here, but they’re shy, and I have to assume they’re not all that interested in attacking humans.
