Hollywood Dragon: BBW Dragon Shifter Paranormal Romance

by Chant, Zoe

  “Well, they do here, I guess. Anyway, that’s what Mick said they were when we came last month. Shall I walk you back to the motel?”

  Jan snorted. “I can see it from here. And even if I couldn’t, it’s not like I’d get lost. Or mugged. Or is there a crime wave in Sanluce, and I need your karate skills to guard me?”

  “Based on two whole days of being here a month ago, I would say that you should be safe from muggers. I’ll give you a call before breakfast, okay? I promised Mick we’d eat in town, otherwise his grandmother would feel it her duty to cook three squares a day for all of us.”

  “I feel guilty enough already about her doing that fabulous dinner,” Jan said. “What is she, at least ninety?”

  “She insists that she loves doing it. But we’re a lot of people for someone who’s been around nearly a century.”

  “No argument here!” Jan flipped up her hand. “See you in the morning.”

  Shelley turned back toward the Volkovs, leaving Jan to walk on alone. As her eyes watched for more fireflies, her mind zapped straight back to that moment before dinner, and that flash of heat when she’d touched JP.

  The pack of ghosts promptly rose, the Scorn Ghost curling her lip and rolling her eyes as she said, What are you, sixteen? Because what else could it be? She didn’t know the guy, and she’d stopped believing in love at first sight when she got old enough to rewatch Disney’s Sleeping Beauty and realize, ew, that prince was a total stranger, kissing Aurora while she was zonked? Eww, eww, eww!

  So what was the cause? Merely that he wore such beautiful clothes—and he wore them so well? Or was it that hint of a very taut body inside the clothes? She had to reduce the stupid crush to its component parts in order to scorn it away, because really. This was Shelley’s week, after which Jan would be going back to “Would you care for a beverage with that?” and dealing with automatic phone trees when making audition calls.

  You know, real life.

  Another firefly flicker caught her eye, and she welcomed the distraction. They were fairly scarce, a blink here and there in the soft, still night air, the brilliant canopy of stars overhead far brighter than in LA. It was a relief and a disappointment both that Shelley had said they were a regular occurrence, because though Jan had given up believing in love at first sight, she still believed in magic. It would have been cool to have the fireflies all to herself.

  When Jan reached the motel, she glanced across that stubbly field, her attention caught by a twinkle of fireflies farther away. She let herself into the motel room but left the light off as she threw the key on the bed.

  She stood at the window watching the firefly ballet, but her mind stubbornly brought back the elegant JP LaFleur. Why hadn’t Shelley prepared her for him? Because Shelley had always gone for brawn, of course. She probably thought JP merely cute, or somewhat handsome, without being aware that he was the hottest thing to ever walk the earth.

  Down , girl! At least no one can see me seriously breaking Rule One, Jan thought as the fireflies twinkled and wove their dance.

  Was there a significance to those flashes? What kind of hidden life was going on right in front of her nose here? There were so many of them, and only in that direction.

  As she stood there, she realized that though it was after ten, she wasn’t the least bit tired. Buzzed a bit from the wine—and from the after-image of JP’s thick-fringed, tilted black eyes—but not tired.

  She hesitated. Lots of LA was perfectly safe at night, as long as you used your head. Especially if you knew the territory. Jan had been taking the bus and walking for a couple of years now, but this was unknown territory.

  Still, how dangerous could Sanluce be? Four stoplights! No traffic!

  She slipped her cell into her pocket, picked up the key, let herself out and started across the field. The ground was uneven, forcing her to slow down. Her stylish sandals were definitely not made for invisible pot holes, so she set her feet down carefully, hoping this was not a stupid idea—that the fireflies would vanish around her like some mirage.

  When she had crossed the empty lot, she found herself on firmer footing. Beyond some low buildings to her left what appeared to be a path slanted away and down a gentle incline into an area with dark patches of trees and shrubs. Far beyond Jan barely made out a row of very tall trees, ink-black silhouettes against the slightly less stygian darkness. Around the pathway the fireflies swarmed, dancing frenetically.

  She walked down the path, smelling not only grass but the faint fragrance of roses on the air. A sense of excitement seized her, the thrill of possibility. She knew it was stupid, that in the glaring light of day this would be a rain parched field in the middle of a bunch of boring automotive repair shops, or tractor barns, or something similar.

  But now . . . she sensed an elusive quality to the air, the starlight, the dancing fireflies, and the fragrance of unknown blossoms. There was a sense of promise, almost of magic.

  She walked until she became aware that she stood in the center of the swarm. The fireflies danced around her, weaving, darting, signaling. What stories unfolded around her, unknown by her blunted human senses?

  A breeze swirled across the grasses, rustling through the trees and whispering through the grass. Quite suddenly the fireflies all blinked out, except for a tiny wink here and there.

  The air felt different. Smelled different . . . a bit like burning leaves. Or hot metal? It was too faint to define for sure, though the hairs on the back of her neck tightened. She was suddenly aware that she was alone in a place she couldn’t really see, and it was very late.

  She gripped the key tightly in one hand, her cell in the other and started marching back. Because no houses were in sight, she tipped her chin up, filled her lungs, and began to sing.

  * * *

  How, JP thought, as he drove home, could Mick have possibly considered Jan a Persian cat, much less a bulldog? If she were a shifter, she would be a finch, or a hummingbird: small, quick, gracefully round in shape, beautiful in plumage. Or a lark, which had the most beautiful voice. A nightingale?

  He got home and shed his clothing, then stood in the courtyard outside his rooms, shaded by trees, and breathed deeply. He had to focus.

  He shifted to his phoenix form, and took off into the sky, opening himself to the mental plane.

  The LaFleur shifters tended to inherit the golden phoenix, the smallest of all the many types of dragon. As a phoenix he could sense wrongness in the earth, the water, and the growing things in it. He could also sense living things on the mental plane, though as no more than twinkling lights. He had to know someone before he could identify those lights.

  The fact that his awareness zoomed straight to Jan’s sun-bright aura was not a good sign. He had to forget that attraction. It was merely physical, and as such dangerously distracting. He didn’t know her. Didn’t know if he could trust her.

  Worse, she seemed to be heading out alone, in the dark—straight toward the border of LaFleur property.

  Meeting someone?

  He veered, flying swiftly over the quiet town. Here and there lights winked out as people settled down to sleep. He was halfway over the north end when he sensed a roil on the mental plane, straight ahead. In the same direction that Jan walked.

  He snapped his wings out, flying hard. He felt the wakening of his fire dragon beneath his golden phoenix, and shut him down hard. Letting his dragon free could only be a desperate measure of last resort, dangerous to everyone.

  Most of all to him.

  He widened his awareness.

  In the time it took for his wings to flap twice he imagined a horrible scenario: whoever had ordered the Albert boy to be beaten cynically sending exactly the sort of woman JP would want, to winnow her way into . . .

  No. No. No.

  He’d been taught all his life to think ahead, to peer beneath the surface of words and actions for hidden motivations. But speculation was never truth until it was proved. It was too easy to tip over into paranoia.


  On the third beat he felt it when the roiling darkness sensed him. It seemed to rear up, then zap! It vanished like smoke.

  Another sort of dragon shifter was out there, something very big, very powerful, and very dangerous.

  He flung his wings out and banked hard, looking down at Jan, who had stopped below, one arm nervously clutching something that glinted like brass, the other hand plunged into her pocket. His sharp night vision made out the familiar square of a cell phone. His phoenix’s sight was far sharper than his hearing or smell, but high as he was, he caught the faint sound of singing.

  He was too high to hear her voice well. Emotion carried better than pitch or timbre: she was clearly scared, and fighting it.

  Why was she out here alone so late? He circled silently above once, twice, flying low enough to capture a few words of her song, he then flew upward on silent wings, circling above her as the fireflies, feeling safe enough to waken, rose to swarm all about her.

  He yearned to remain, but duty must come first. He knew she was safe, or his little cousins would have gone silent. He felt the fireflies’ simple joy—they were so responsive to harmonic sound, especially one so extraordinarily beautiful—and reflected it back at them before he drifted away over the rooftops to finish his round.

  * * *

  When Jan reached the top of the gentle rise, the aromatic breeze rifled through her clothes and hair. The fireflies had reappeared, and she sang to them as she lengthened her strides. Almost as if they danced with her, the fireflies swirled upward. The breeze had to be responsible—she doubted they could even hear her—but the idea cheered her. She brought the aria to a close, humming the last few bars when she saw the lit windows of the motel about the length of a football field away.

  Then she spotted something glowing on the ground in front of her, and nearly stepped on it. She stopped. It was far too large and long to be a firefly. She took a careful step and stared down in amazement at a golden . . . feather?

  She bent down and tentatively touched it. It gleamed with ruddy highlights, so bright that she half expected it to feel hot. But it was merely a long feather, very soft, and not burning at all. So she picked it up, and carefully carried it on her palm the rest of the way.

  When she let herself into the motel room, she laid it on the night table, half expecting it to vanish before morning. Then she shut the curtains, took a fast shower, plugged in her phone charger, and climbed into bed.

  She turned out the light—and as soon as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she made out the faint golden glow of the feather. But already it was dimmer than it had been earlier.

  Her mind ranged over the evening, always coming back around to JP LaFleur. She thought she could count every word he’d said, always in that pure register. Just thinking about him . . . she fell asleep trying to imagine what music would fit his beautiful whisper-silver voice . . .

  * * *

  As soon as he got home, JP pulled on a pair of pants, then dropped into his computer chair and slapped the machine to life. He swiftly typed in the phrases he’d overheard Jan singing.

  Google promptly identified the aria belonging to a very minor operetta by Rudolf Frimi, called The Firefly.

  Mystery solved. She’d gone out to look at the fireflies, exactly the way Mick and Shelley had on their previous visit. He laughed in relief, but then his smile vanished.

  If she hadn’t gone to meet whatever that dark presence had been, then she was unaware of it, but it had been watching her just the same.

  Chapter Six

  Jan jolted awake as Ride of the Valkyries thundered its brass in her ear. Where was she?

  Oh! Sanluce—wedding—JP LaFleur—fireflies.

  Golden feather.

  She fumbled her phone to her ear. “Hello?”

  Shelley’s cheery voice spoke. “Hey. Ready for breakfast? As soon as we’re done Mick wants to take us over to the LaFleurs’ to check out the garden. Do you want to come?”

  Jan rubbed her eyes. “Sure. This isn’t our sound check, is it?”

  “No, that’ll be day after tomorrow. The musicians will be here by then. And the guys will be done with their bachelor bash.”

  “Bachelor bash! And what will we be doing during said bash? Something fun, I hope?”

  Shelley’s voice flattened into wariness. “Mrs. LaFleur has kindly invited us to an afternoon tea. To introduce me to the local Important People. Mick warned me that JP’s mom, who is the current mayor, can be, um . . . Um. You’re invited, of course,” Shelley added.

  Jan’s heart had given a hard thud at ‘Mrs. LaFleur.’ Of course someone as hot as JP would have been snapped up by now. Then she scoffed at her relief when ‘JP’s mom’ followed. “Sure I will. If it’s a fancy party the eats are sure to be good, and as for Important People, how many evil queens, angry goddesses, and fussy duchesses have I sung on stage? I can channel any or all of them.”

  “Awesome. We’ll be by in half an hour to pick you up.”

  Half an hour! Typical Shelley. Well, at least it was only for breakfast, Jan thought as she launched out of bed. She wasn’t going to bother with full makeup for breakfast, and her new haircut had cut the time it took to deal with hair from an hour to ten minutes. She could easily do half an hour.

  She forgot all about the shower when her gaze fell on the feather. Sure enough, it had pretty much lost its glow. Or maybe she’d imagined the glow. It lay there, reminding her of a gull feather, but no gull had grown a feather this long and broad. It had to belong to a much larger bird.

  She touched it, then ran it through her fingers. For a split second a faint golden sparkle glimmered on her fingers, quickly gone.

  She was going to set the feather down, and then remembered housekeeping. So she carefully wrapped the feather in tissue and slid it into an inner pocket of her purse, then dashed into the bathroom.

  An hour later she, Shelley, and Mick sat down at a rough table in a pretty little place surrounded by aromatic cedars and overshadowed by sturdy California black oak. The bow windows were paned in diamonds, giving the small restaurant a timeless look. They sat outside, as the late summer heat had not yet begun to build.

  As Mick and Shelley conversed in low voices, Jan busied herself with the menu, but her eyes didn’t see the words. It was funny, how tucked away this place was. Left alone, she never would have found it. Why would the main street of the town be so boring, while places like this were hidden away on cul-de-sacs?

  The server appeared, a young man who reminded Jan strongly of an overgrown puppy, all soft brown eyes and eager movements. She realized she hadn’t actually read the menu, but since she liked every breakfast food she randomly pointed to something, and the guy—he couldn’t have been over eighteen—practically wagged his tail.

  Shelley and Mick both ordered eggs benedict, then laughed that the way couples did when they were totally wrapped up in each other, and every mildly amusing thing (or even stuff that wasn’t funny) was killingly hilarious. At first Jan thought it was cute, but midway through a conversation about weather and so forth, she sensed private signals between them—the self-consciousness, the holding back before a third party. They were striving to be polite, and it was that striving that began to make Jan wish she’d stayed back at the motel. The fact that they tried so hard not to let her feel like a third wheel pretty much assigned her the role.

  Mental note, she thought. Tomorrow, third wheel be flat.

  The food arrived, to her relief, and silence fell as they dug in. She discovered that she had ordered Spanish omelet with a side of delicious, crispy country potatoes mixed with caramelized onions, sweet peppers, and sausage.

  As soon as he’d cleaned his plate, Mick said with a quick look Shelley’s way, “I’ve got to do some errands, but I can walk. You take the car. We’ll meet over at LaFleurs’ later. You remember how to get there—straight down that street, follow the curve, turn in at the oak lane. Can’t miss it.”

  “Sure,” Shelley said
in a hearty voice that sounded forced to Jan’s ears.

  Mick smiled Jan’s way, flipped up a hand, and walked to the cashier with the check, leaving Jan and Shelley to finish their coffee.

  As soon as Jan saw his blond hair and blue shirt flicker through the diamond panes and vanish up the street, she leaned forward. “I don’t want to sound all middle school, but I’m fine on my own. You two don’t have to drag me around. Really.”

  Shelley’s gaze averted, then snapped back. “Not at all!”

  “Shel. You’re a great friend, but a terrible liar. You two were practically sending out signal flags, Private Stuff to Discuss.”

  Shelley reddened. “It’s not you. It’s . . . town stuff. Mick was unloading a little last night. JP is on the town council, and the guys talk.”

  Enlightenment hit Jan. “Small town politics?”

  Shelley shrugged. “Yup.”

  “Okay, that makes sense. My grandmother used to live in Seal Beach, and one thing I learned early was the smaller the town, the worse the infighting. Entire feuds could break out at town council meetings over whether parking slots should be painted straight or slanted. Granny used to say that the town council election politicking was ten times worse than any presidential election because everything was personal.”

  Shelley grinned. “I get the feeling it might be a little like that here.” Jan laughed, and as they had finished their coffee, Shelley said, “Let’s go.”

  Jan’s curiosity about JP LaFleur’s home space had revved up to max by the time Shelley drove down a winding, shady road with tall California black oaks to either side.

  The road opened into a wide, curved sweep called a carriage-drive, framed by fragrant fruit trees and a lot of other expensive landscaping, with a line of cedars behind. Shelley parked carefully next to a classic Porsche 911 T, black on black. Jan took one look and thought, classic and fast, a car designed to be driven by an elegant man in the mood for all kinds of sin.