Luminous_Dragon's Creed_A Reverse Harem Urban Fantasy

by Katie French

  Luminous

  The Dragons Creed Series

  Ingrid Seymour

  Katie French

  Copyright © 2018 by Ingrid Seymour and Katie French

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Katie: For my Family

  Ingrid: To Bret

  For the endless entertainment and friendship

  Contents

  Preface

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  BOOK TWO AVAILABLE IN PREORDER NOW!

  SNEAK PEEK OF THE BREEDERS

  SNEAK PEEK OF ONE WISH AWAY

  About the Author - Ingrid Seymour

  About the Author - Katie French

  Also by Ingrid Seymour

  Also by Katie French

  Acknowledgments

  Preface

  “I believe in everything until it’s disproved. So I believe in fairies, the myths, dragons. It all exists, even if it’s in your mind. Who’s to say that dreams and nightmares aren’t as real as the here and now?”

  ― John Lennon

  “I do not care what comes after; I have seen the dragons on the wind of morning.”

  ― Ursula K. Le Guin, The Farthest Shore

  Prologue

  Many towns had secrets, but the town of Summers Lake had a secret so old it ached.

  Tourists would stop their cars on the side of the road, claiming they were in desperate need of a pit stop, but knowing somewhere deep inside that the town had called to them, pulled them like a magnet toward its center.

  Airplanes had trouble navigating over the town, so much so the Michigan Department of Aviation rerouted all flight paths permanently, stating something about air currents and polar magnetism, though everyone knew none of that meant squat.

  For the townsfolk, they knew the pull, had felt it all their lives. They’d stormed the beach around the ancient lighthouse and dashed headlong into the lake, squealing, then running out again for fear of what snatched at their ankles. They’d spent summers climbing trees in the seemingly unending pine forest, sap stuck to every appendage and their necks stiff from craning toward the sky.

  The townsfolk knew—here, there be dragons.

  But, of course, not really. It was a myth, a legend. They threw their commemoration party every year in May and the high school mascot was a dragon, obviously—even if all those sightings of a monster similar to Loch Ness’s famed creature hidden deep in their lake had all been disproven by several teams of biologists…

  Science had come up with a good answer to why planes couldn’t fly over their town, too. It was all human error, fueled by crazy superstition. In the end, the planes resumed their normal flight patterns and nothing of note happened.

  Nothing until Rose McCarty turned up dead.

  The mysteries surrounding her death added a frenzied darkness to all the stories, to the fables. Soon, the townsfolk drudged up the old stories, saying she was eaten by the lake monster. Or was sacrificed to the dragon that prowled the skies.

  As was to be expected, these stories were shaken off, too.

  The real story of what happened to Rose McCarty was known by few in town. One person in particular held the truth closely and wouldn’t share it with anyone.

  That was until doing so could affect the fate of the entire world.

  Chapter One

  I opened the door to stare out at the howling storm I’d soon have to battle. The wind lashed against the window panes of the ancient house and made the loose shutter thump against the siding. Ahead, a jagged fork of lightning split the sky, followed by what literally had to be the world’s loudest peal of thunder. It sent Pickles, my cat, skittering across the kitchen floor to dive deep under the couch. Howling wind, torrential rain, and a churning lake that appeared as if it could swallow up even the best boater raged outside.

  I sighed, grabbing my raincoat from the coat rack. At least I hadn’t bothered to blow dry my hair today.

  The clomp of his cane announced Dad before he cleared his throat in the doorway between the kitchen and living room. “If you’ll wait, I can get my slicker on and help you.”

  I turned to him, shrugging on the raincoat and stuffing my feet into rubber boots. “I’ve got this. Don’t worry. This ain’t my first rodeo.”

  Dad slumped into the closest kitchen chair, already wincing from the effort. There was no way I was letting him out in this storm, no matter how much I might yearn for the company.

  “Make sure you trim the wick before relighting. A long wick will cause it to smoke and—”

  “Gutter. I know. You told me.” I zipped up the slicker and flipped the hood over my dark hair.

  “And make sure the kerosene is full. No sense in making the climb for that twice in one day.” Dad shoved his hand through his thinning hair.

  “Got it. Anything else?” Another crack of thunder rumbled the little house. I wanted to get out there and get this done already.

  “Give the lens a good polish while you’re there, too. Or leave it for me; I can do it in the morning.”

  Not with that limp. “Sure, Dad.”

  “I wish to God the city council would’ve approved the money to modernize the old gal. It’s just too damn dangerous now.”

  What Dad didn’t say was it was too dangerous for him. He’d been diagnosed with Muscular Dystrophy a year earlier, and it had hit him hard. Climbing up the spiral staircase twice a day with his legs was nearly impossible. But the town had ancient lore about this lighthouse, and they wouldn’t dare renovate it. Modernization had been unanimously voted down. It brought in tourists, and tourist brought in money.

  There’d been a lot of talk about firing Dad and hiring someone more suited as a lighthouse keeper, but that would have meant Dad losing his job and me losing the only home I’d ever known.

  Albeit ever so leaky, there was no place like home.

  Once Dad had clomped angrily out of the chamber, I’d quietly told the city council I would be responsible for lighting the lantern twice a day. Sunrise and sunset.

  So, yeah, this wasn’t my first rodeo. Just the first in a terrible storm.

  Another bolt of lightning lit up the sky, followed by thunder that one could only describe as the sound the world would make if it split in two.

  “Dad, I want to get this over with. I’ve got two episodes of Supernatural calling my name.” I cupped my hands around my mouth, and called out in a whispery voice, “Lila, come watch us. Come rot your brain on garbage TV.” Dropping my hands and the eerie voice, I continued. “I have to obey, Father. My brain is already wired directly into the Matrix.”

  He smiled weakly and rubbed his eyes. “I hate to see you go out in
this.”

  “I won’t melt.” I tugged the hood down tighter, gripped the door handle, and threw myself out into the storm.

  It was worse than I thought. Way worse.

  The minute I set foot outside, the wind whipped me sideways. The front door slammed open, and I had to fight through the gale to get it shut. Panting and spitting rainwater out of my mouth, I measured the distance to the lighthouse.

  About twenty yards away, the old structure rose into the dark sky. With no lantern lit, there was no way to see the splendor that was Peely Point Lighthouse. Built in 1843 by Gus Vanderhoven, a famed builder at the time, the lighthouse was the treasure of Summers Lake. People came from all over to paint pictures of it. Heck, bards even wrote songs about it. Or they had. One song.

  Regardless, it was the town’s little wonder of the world.

  And I was blowing it big time.

  Not many boats would be out in a storm like this—besides, most had excellent GPS and sonar capabilities—but more than that, the town would be watching. If I was late lighting the lamp, the city council would know. And if it happened more than once, they might fire Dad, and then we would be out on our ears.

  Facing the storm, I angled into the wind and fought my way toward the lighthouse door.

  Luckily for me, a solitary light shone down on the side door to the entrance way. I made my way to the door in a decent amount of time, only pausing to squeal like a little girl when lightning forked down and struck a tree not far from the beach. Once my senses were intact and I’d made sure I hadn’t peed myself, I walked to the door and unlocked it.

  Once inside, I stood with my back to the exit for a solid minute, catching my breath and letting the rain trickle off and soak the floor.

  Collecting myself, I took off my drenched raincoat and hung it on the hook. The boots went next. Finding my familiar pair of inside shoes—as Dad liked to call them, but which were really glorified slippers from Target—I stuffed my feet in. Properly shod, I found the kerosene can where I’d left it stocked and ready to go.

  Then I began the climb.

  The climb consisted of one hundred and eighty-four steps, the equivalent of a seven-story building.

  “Up is the hardest part,” I murmured.

  Getting to the first landing was no problem. It was the second, third, and fourth that got me.

  “Run a lighthouse they said. It would be fun they said.” I used the arm not holding the gas can to wipe the sweat off my brow. No longer freezing from the rain, I was now soaked with rainwater and sweat. Attractive. I waggled an eyebrow seductively, laughed, then hopped up the next flight of stairs.

  Around and around. Up and up. I’d created all kind of games for this when I was little—do it all with your eyes closed; do it all looking down at the tile while you fight off your fear of heights; pretend you are Rapunzel, and Mother Gothel is screaming at you to run faster. I’d even grown out my hair for three solid years only to realize it would not grow past my butt no matter what I did. I had Mom cut it off the very next day. Chin-length bob. No bangs.

  But tonight, there were no games, only slogging, and when I got to the top, I was exhausted. The Supernatural marathon was a joke meant to lighten Dad’s mood. I still had my chem and AP Lit tests to study for. And then there was the commemoration party I was supposed to attend tomorrow night. How in the world would I find the energy? There was only so much Red Bull in the world.

  Quietly humming, I set about trimming the wick, refiling the kerosene, and polishing the Fresnel lens. I cleaned the inside of the windows, even though rain lashed the outside. When that was done, I swept the floor, making sure to leave no trace of dirt or grim. The head of the city council, Mr. Webb, was a real pain in the rear end. He was known for unannounced inspections, and might freak if anything was out of order.

  Satisfied, I began the climb in reverse. Going down was much nicer, but still took time and energy. When I got to the bottom, my bottom was on fire.

  “Buns of steel,” I said, setting the kerosene can on the floor and taking off my shoes.

  With a sigh, I shouldered on my coat and boots.

  “Once more into the fray.” I pushed out into the storm.

  More wind and thunder. The damn storm seemed settled right on top of our house. But it didn’t matter. Soon, I would be warm and safe and—

  A squawk and a flap of wings startled me. I ducked just in time to see a big, white blur soar down and smash into the wet sand. Stunned, I turned to see a white and gray seagull twitch and flap helplessly. Buffeted by rain, the poor bird tried once more to lift-off, but it looked like one of its wings was broken.

  A huge gust of wind nearly brought me to my knees. When I glanced up, the bird was at the edge of the surf and still being blown backward. The broken wing was out like a sail. The poor thing would be sucked into the water and drown.

  I didn’t think. I just ran.

  Hood flying back, I got a face full of rain as I tore through the sand toward the creature. The bird made another weak attempt upward, but a wave crashed over it, dragging it down.

  “Hold on!” I tried to run harder. The sand sucked at my feet. The bird was a blur, struggling against the rough water. There wasn’t much time.

  I ran into the surf, instantly realizing what a bad idea that was. The waves were rougher than I’d thought possible, tugging at my legs, urging me down. I’d be sucked out and drown trying to save a freaking seagull!

  My hand landed on something soft. The bird. I scooped the ball of feathers to my chest.

  Eyes up, I saw something flash in the horizon. At first, I thought it was lightning, but it was too close to the churning water. I focused on a shape rising out of the surf, way too large to be a fish. My brain thought whale, but this was lake water. No whales lived here.

  My mind ventured back to my childhood, to those times when I was sure to the very core of my being that dragons lived in the lake, in the sky. I used to draw nothing but dragons at school, so much so the teacher suggested a therapist. I’d hear their songs at night, see them slip through the trees like serpents of the air. I’d even convinced myself if I went to the beach at midnight, my dragon—I’d called him Big Blue—would show up.

  It had all stopped when Mom died, and I’d realized they were all childhood fantasies.

  When I looked up again, there was no trace of anything in the water.

  A huge wave hit me from the side, knocking me down. Water slammed against my chest, spraying into my mouth. Coughing, sputtering, I crawled my way out of the waves, trying my best to keep the bird safe. When my feet sank into dry sand, I was so grateful.

  But then I threw up.

  So much for that pizza dinner.

  Tired and soaked, I readjusted the bird that was either unconscious or dead. Panicked, I plowed my way through the rain to the house.

  When I got there, Dad threw the door open, squinting into the rain.

  “Lila, what in the world?”

  “Don’t ask, okay? Here,” I handed him the lifeless gull, which he accepted with pure shock on his face. “This bird’s name is Fernando, and if he lives I want to keep him. Now, please let me in, and tell me there’s hot coffee.”

  Chapter Two

  My toast looked like a charred flip-flop. I scraped the top with a knife before spreading butter on the rest. Black bits mixed with the creamy topping. I took a bite and shrugged. Breakfast food wasn’t my thing anyway. Coffee, though? There could never be enough.

  I shuffled to the bay window and peered out. The morning was gorgeous, the sky a swirl of the most beautiful yellows and oranges that begged to be painted. Mom used to get up early to capture these views. She said it made living in this drafty house worth it. I still missed her drawings and paintings hanging all over the house. Only two had been saved from closet storage, and they were in my room. Dad said he couldn’t bear to look at them every day.

  A plaintive, drawn-out keow-keow-keow at my feet pulled me from my thoughts. I squatted next t
o the cage at the corner of our small kitchen to peek at the injured seagull.

  “Hey, buddy,” I cooed. “How’s captivity treating you this morning?”

  The bird stared at me sideways with a beady, yellow eye. The poor thing looked miserable, curled at the very back of the cage.

  “Sorry you had to spend the night in lock-up,” I said. “But the storm is over now, so parole is just on the horizon once we get that wing fixed.”

  I broke off a piece of my toast, and then poked it through the bars. The gull turned away from it.

  “I know. Prison food, am I right?”

  Pickles meowed from the top of the counter, eying the bird like he’d like to show him some hospitality—with his claws. The coffee maker gurgled behind him. Why did the darn thing take so long? We seriously needed a new one. I’d had my eye on a fancy espresso maker that had more bells and whistles than a smartphone, but we could never afford it. Dad shuffled into the kitchen, wearing loose flannel pajama pants, his cane tapping the linoleum floor.

  “How’s the bird?” he asked, frowning at the trickling coffee maker with annoyance.

  “Protesting his treatment with a hunger strike. You’re gonna take it to the vet, right?” I said.

  “Soon as I get some coffee in me, sure.”

  We both poured tall cups, no sugar, and drank them in silence. Slowly, we began to look alive, the caffeine in our veins making us half-human again.

  “Are you going to the bonfire tonight?” Dad asked, puttering to the window to look at the sunrise.

  “Dunno.”

  I’d refused to commit to this question all week. Why did he keep asking? He didn’t really want me to go. It only seemed to matter now because it was my last year in high school, and he thought I would miss out on a last chance to hang with my friends. Last year, he’d been glad I’d stayed curled up on the couch, watching TV while the other kids acted like idiots at the beach.