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Published By: Taliesin Publishing, LLC, PO Box 155, Sanford, MI 48657
www.taliesinpublishing.com
Hip Deep in Dragons
Copyright © 2014 by Chrisina Westcott
Digital Release: April 2014
ISBN: 978-1-62916-062-7
Cover Artist: Fiona Jayde
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Table Of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Hip Deep in Dragons by Christina Westcott
Doctor Laura Chambers considers her life well-ordered and unremarkable She holds down multiple jobs, stashing away every extra penny for the day she can afford to open her own veterinary practice. Her idea of a pleasant evening consists of dinner at home with her cats, then turning in early with a hot new romance novel. Inviting the ruggedly handsome stranger she found asleep on her porch to join her for breakfast should have been out of the question—even if he did have gorgeous green eyes and call her Milady.
With his charming brogue and courtly manners, Robert of Starhollow could be a British tourist hitch-hiking across Florida in search of a mysterious individual named Shakagwa Dun. But Laura soon learns she’ll be asked to believe more than a few impossible things this morning before breakfast.
Robby is a wizard from a parallel world where magic still exists and he’s hot on the trail of a dragon, a particularly nasty creature who’s picked the Florida Everglades as a likely spot to set up housekeeping and raise a brood of dragonlings. If the sexy young wizard can’t convince the dragon to return to their world, he may have no choice but to slay it and Laura is determined to not let him face that danger alone.
If they don’t succeed in disrupting the dragon’s plans, Florida could soon find itself hip deep in dragons.
Chapter One
I noticed the cat as I hurried along Naples’ trendy Fifth Avenue, heading for home. In the east, out over the Everglades, a thunderstorm built, winding up to deliver one of Florida’s infamous frog-stranglers. As I reached the sheltered walkway leading back to the tearoom, I paused to peer down the shady length. Its old world charm always drew me with its splashing fountain and bright impatiens in terra cotta pots. The concrete bench, where I often savored a takeout cup of Earl Gray, now hosted a feline. The cat nestled in the single patch of sunlight, its front paws tucked under its chest, looking like nothing so much as a large and contented meatloaf.
“Bob?” I called.
The chances of it being my long lost pet were near to impossible. The last time I’d seen him had been the summer I turned thirteen, the summer everything had changed.
Like Bob, this cat was black and white, not an uncommon pattern, but the regularity of the markings reminded me of my old friend. An inverted vee blazoned his face, the white just kissing the inside edge of each green eye. The two colors bisected his ears vertically, black on the inside edges, white on the outside. I took an involuntary step forward, to see if he shared the other distinctive identifier with Bob—the lack of a tail. A Manx cat, he’d had only a couple of kinked vertebras on his back end, giving him a ridiculous, fluffy-tailed-bunny look.
By now, my kitten would be nearing seventeen, but with a loving home and the proper care, cats reached that age and beyond all the time. His gleaming coat and muscular shoulders suggested he’d spent those years as someone’s pampered housecat.
Alerted by my call, the cat swiveled his ears, eyes opening to scan his surroundings. He swept his gaze past me, and then did an abrupt, almost comical double take and stared at me for long seconds. After a slow blink—the cat equivalent of a smile—he rose and stretched, his broad paws extended, and his back end—crowned with that silly pom-pom tail—held high.
I noticed he was still very much the tomcat as he jumped down and sauntered away. I hurried after him, both to renew an old acquaintance and to see if he had a collar to show who owned him. Some kind family had cared for him for those years, and I wanted to thank them…and perhaps remind them of the importance of neutering and spaying their pets.
“Bob. Here kitty, kitty,” I called in the high, singsong voice appropriate to addressing pets and small children. In that maddening way of felines, he managed to stay just out of reach. At the end of the walkway, he trotted around the corner and disappeared.
I rounded the edge of the building and collided with a solid wall of masculine muscle. Strong arms reached out to grab my shoulders, steadying me. Startled, I looked up into an angular face with full lips that seemed on the edge of a smile, as if he knew some delicious secret about me.
“Begging your pardon, milady, did I frighten you? Are you okay?”
The voice slid across my senses like golden silk. The accent could have been English, or perhaps Scottish, but the overall effect was of a warm purr. I liked the way the archaic phrases nestled in among the modern words. It didn’t sound stilted, it sounded…well, romantic.
The hands on my arms were sun-bronzed. Thin white scars crisscrossed his forearms. Below broad shoulders, his biceps strained the sleeves of his lavender, designer, polo shirt. Most men couldn’t carry off that color, they’d look too effete, but with those shoulders and his thickly muscled chest, it looked just fine.
I wasn’t sure what made his face so appealing. His nose appeared to have been broken at least once, and there was a stubborn set to his dimpled chin. That must have been it. I’d had a soft spot in my heart for rugged men with cleft chins since I’d first seen Gladiator.
Although he appeared no older than me, his black hair had gone silver over each ear and he’d pulled the striped mane back into a long braid. His eyes were the most incredible shade of green—the cool, pale color of white grapes—a perfect foil to the lavender shirt. His lashes were long and dark as he blinked at me several times.
“Milady, are you sure you are all right?”
As I realized that I stared, open mouthed, at a complete stranger, a ferocious blush surged up my face and out to my ears, turning them red and warm. I imagined them flashing twin signs: Warning! Meltdown Imminent!
“I, uh…that is—” I drew a steadying breath and his scent washed over me, redolent of freshly mowed grass and sunlit forest glades. I had to clear my throat and swallow before I could continue. “I was looking for my cat.”
He quirked a dark eyebrow at me and smiled. “Your cat?” He put a curious emphasis on the first word.
“Well, not my cat. A cat. Big, black and white. No tail. Have you seen him?”
“Oh aye, that cat. The beastie ran over yonder.”
He withdrew his hands to point behind the building, and I shivered, craving the warmth of his touch once again. I started to edge around him, my hands fluttering to match the jumbo-jet sized butt
erflies flapping in my stomach. “Thanks. I’ll just go see if I can find him.”
A shadow swept overhead, and thunder grumbled, softened by distance. He looked up, studying the bank of iron gray clouds sweeping in from the east. “You had best hurry home, milady. That storm is coming in fast, and I think it shall be a bad one. I would not wish to see you get drenched.”
“I’ll just take a quick look. See if I can find him.” I eased away, walking backward.
“Then fare thee well, milady.” He half-bowed in an archaic manner.
“Bye.” I turned and hurried off, feeling his gaze on my back as I retreated. Fighting the temptation to look, I searched for the cat, taking deep, cleansing breaths to cool my face. Milady? No one had ever called me milady, like a princess in one of those fantasy novels I’d read as a kid.
There was no sign of Bob behind the building, so I broadened my search to include the straggly hedge growing at the edge of the parking lot. With its leaves as cover, I peered at the stranger. As he reached down to swing a rucksack onto his shoulders, I couldn’t help but notice how nicely his tight little butt and muscular legs filled out his faded Levi’s. I wondered what kind of job a man did to get a build like that. Not sitting behind a desk, I was sure. With my imagination’s flair for adventure, it was easy to picture him on a Viking long ship or a Navy Seal Team. The truth was doubtless more prosaic; he probably did manual labor.
He picked up a walking stick—not one of those fancy aluminum ones from an outdoors store, but an honest-to-goodness staff that appeared to be hand-hewn and darkened from years of use. As I watched him stride across the parking lot, thunder cracked, much closer now, and I decided to abandon my search.
Bob had survived without me for sixteen years. What was one more day? I’d come back tomorrow, ask around at some of the shops, and see if anyone remembered the cat or knew where he belonged. Perhaps I could catch another glimpse of the mysterious green-eyed man.
I reached the sidewalk, my thoughts and eyes straying to the distant figure. He turned and raised a hand in farewell as if he felt my gaze. I hesitated, and then waved back, but he had already turned away. A gust swept down the street, announcing the storm’s impending arrival, rattling dried palm fronds and sending oak leaves skittering across the pavement. Lightning flashed, a peal of thunder only seconds behind it, warning that it was time to take cover. I dashed for home.
The sky teased me with the prospect of arriving dry, but as I sighted my little cottage, the clouds opened up with fat raindrops that quickly escalated into a deluge. I sprinted the last few yards to the screened porch where my umbrella waited in the stand next to the front door, mocking me.
The old cottage sat on a postage stamp sized lot, sandwiched between a pair of million dollar villas. The trend for real estate in Naples recently had been to buy up several smaller lots and raze the quaint old bungalows to build the large multi-thousand-square-foot estates.
Both of my neighbors had expressed a desire to buy my property, to build a garage for their car collection or a new swimming pool, but I could never sell the old house. It was in my blood, all I had left of my family. My grandfather had built it in the forties when Naples was a sleepy resort village. My father had grown up here, as had I.
I unlocked the mullioned front door, with its sixteen panes of old rippled glass, and stepped into the comfortable, cypress-paneled living room. Castor and Pollux, my tabby twins, greeted me, twining around my legs with upraised tails and complaining in cattish: Where have you been? Feed us now! Jasmine, my Ragdoll, remained aloof as befitted the queen of the household. She looked down her charcoal nose at her rambunctious brothers and their antics.
With my feline entourage in tow, I went to the kitchen and put on water for tea before changing out of my wet clothes. Snug in sweat pants and a ragged T-shirt, I had my usual dinner, a salad with a cup of green tea, while the cats had kibble with a scoop of their favorite canned cat food.
Rain drummed on the tin roof, and wind rattled the seed pods of the huge Poinciana tree outside the kitchen window. The green-eyed man had been right about the storm; it promised to be an all-nighter. I wondered if he was still out in this mess and felt a flash of chagrin for not having thought of him earlier. Had he made it someplace dry? Or was he huddled, wet and miserable, in a doorway? I didn’t think he was homeless. He was too well turned out for that. Clean-shaven and smelling like an alpine forest, I remembered with a tiny surge of warmth. More likely, he was a European tourist hitch-hiking across the States. He’d have a long walk ahead of him to make it out of ritzy, downtown Naples to the East Tamiami Trail where he could find lodging that would fit into a hiker’s budget.
I had friends who wouldn’t hesitate to take him in like a stray puppy or kitten, but I wasn’t in the habit of bringing home strange men, even if they were gorgeous and called me milady. No, my life was too ordered for that. I wasn’t a risk taker.
At least I had the next few days off. Starting Friday, I’d be on duty at the emergency vet clinic for most of the weekend, and then back for a couple of nights next week. I filled in at several practices, allowing the vets to sneak in some vacation time before the hectic rush of the holidays, followed by the equally frenetic tourist season.
After the first of the year, the population of Naples swelled with winter visitors, many of whom brought their cats and dogs. I helped out with everything from seeing patients to cleaning cages. Any money I made beyond my merger living expenses, I squirreled away in a special account for the day I could afford my own practice.
It felt decadent to have no errands to run and nothing demanding my attention tonight. I made a cup of hot chocolate, crawled into bed early with a new paperback by my favorite romance author, and settled in with the cats. Hours later, after reading the same paragraph three times, and nodding off before finishing at each attempt, I turned off the lights and snuggled down to let the rain on the rooftop lull me into sleep.
Chapter Two
The thunder’s reverberation still hung in the air as I lurched upright in bed, my heart hammering. The cats scattered, scurrying for their favorite bolt-holes. As loud as it had been, the lightning must have struck somewhere in the neighborhood. I scrubbed my hands across my face and checked the clock on the nightstand—nearly two thirty. The blue numbers blinked, warning of a power failure.
I palmed the reset button and started to sink back on my pillow when a rhythmic bang, bang, bang echoed from the front of the house. My pulse spiked, but settled back as I recognized the sound of the porch’s screen door slamming in the wind. I must have forgotten to latch it when I hurried in to get out of the rain. The storm showed no signs of abating, so that racket could go on all night if I didn’t get up and take care of it.
I rolled out of bed, not bothering to turn on the lamp as I padded across the unlit room. I’d roamed around this old house since I was old enough to walk, so I didn’t need light to navigate through the familiar darkness. Patches of shadow skittered across the living room floor. A pair of old trees in the yard blocked most of the glow from the street lamps, allowing only fuzzy patches in through the windows to shift restlessly on the floor.
I shuffled across room, yawning. As my hand touched the front door’s lock, a shaft of lightning split the night. The flash illuminated the porch in a stark chiaroscuro and silhouetted the man standing beyond the glass. A crash of thunder swallowed my scream. I flinched back, stumbled, and fell on my behind. Skittering backward, I labored to draw enough air through my suddenly constricted throat. Adrenaline jolted my pulse to a staccato drumming. Part crawling, part running, I bolted for the safety of the bedroom and my cell phone.
In the no-longer friendly darkness, I blundered into the edge of the bureau. The corner dug into my arm. I clenched my teeth against a curse and groped across the top, rifling through the usual detritus of my life until I touched the thin cord of the phone’s charger. I reeled it in, but found only an empty USB plug at the end.
The phone had to
be here somewhere. My fingers scrabbled further, brushing against the smooth square of plastic, but sweeping it onto the floor amid an avalanche of unidentifiable objects. I dropped to my knees and patted around on the rug. Jasmine’s hiss from beneath the bureau warned I was too close her hiding place. By feel, I identified a hairbrush, a scattering of change, and then my cell phone. I snatched it up, its screen emitting a pale but comforting ball of light in the darkness.
I had 9-1-1 on speed dial, but as my finger hovered over the button I paused and listened. Beyond the trip-hammer of my own heartbeat, I heard nothing. No foreign sounds emanated from the front of the house, no breaking glass or footsteps, only the drumming of the rain on the roof.
I crept out of the bedroom and peered down the hallway. The next flash of lightning revealed only emptiness beyond the glass of the front door. I inched my way along the hall to the living room, flattened against the wall, and edged around the perimeter. As I slipped past the fireplace, I snatched the poker from the rack of tools on the hearth. The iron heft of it felt reassuring in my hands. Like an impromptu Excalibur, I held it double handed as I peered out the window.
Rain puddled on the porch, driven through the screens by the storm’s ferocity. Shadows stirred across the wet floor, but none appeared large enough to hide a man. I flipped on the porch light, and its flare of brightness illuminated the familiar, old, peeled, cypress furniture.
I drew a deep, shuddering breath, stepped to the front door, and switched on the carriage lights out by the sidewalk. Nothing moved but shadows.
I unlocked the front door—leaving on the chain—and yelled, “I’ve called the police. They’ll be here any minute.” I slammed the door, flicked the bolt home, and waited for a few heartbeats—quite a few—as my heart raced like a runaway greyhound. When nothing happened, I pulled open the door and advanced onto the porch, fireplace poker held in the en garde position. In case I needed to beat a hasty retreat, I left the way open behind me.
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