Naked Dragon Page 2

  Small winged creatures had often blessed him thus. Made him feel a bit more comfortable in his surroundings and, well, scorned upon, but roasting and eating them did not seem prudent.

  Bastian raised himself on his elbows and saw a group of human spirits watching him, their shadowy bodies fully formed as they stood by a cluster of caves and trees, pointing their shaking fingers his way.

  The first humans he’d encountered in centuries offered no welcome, only warning. But why?

  He should not be able to see them with either human or dragon eyes.

  Had Andra’s transformation spell given him this new ability? Or had the power come from Killian, who sent them to the island centuries before? She meant them harm. This he knew. So what had her counter spell wrought?

  Nothing good, he feared. He did not expect to come out unscathed, not from an encounter with a sorceress as dreadfully strong as Killian.

  He supposed he would know soon enough.

  As Bastian tried to catch his breath, a tiny dragon slipped through the veil behind him, lively, blue, and barely bigger than his cupped hands. It seemed to air-hop rather than fly around him, sending out puffs of yellow smoke until the frolicker hovered above his head and looked into his eyes. “I am Jock,” he said telepathically, “your guardian dragon. That was test smoke. The air here is safe for you to breathe.”

  Bastian would be dead if it were not, but no need to disappoint his eager, though seemingly useless, guardian.

  Jock snuffled in a way that reminded Bastian of Whyzind, his mentor, too old and sick to survive a transformation and journey through the planes. His blue guardian dragon’s snuffle turned into a bout of laughter as Jock doubled over and pointed to the center of Bastian’s man body.

  Bastian raised his head, looked down at himself, and saw what must be the result of Killian’s counter spell. He remembered enough about his human form to know that a man lance did not normally have such length, a flaw like movable scales beneath its skin, nor an arrowed tip like a dragon’s tail.

  Bastian lay back against his leafy, insect-ridden bed of dirt and dust. Was this his destiny, then? To arrive flawed and fighting the beast eager to reclaim him?

  Killian had remained as shrewd as ever. His lance would never please an earth woman, though Andra had not mentioned his need for it, which did not stop him from anticipating its use, a hope he should probably relinquish.

  Bastian sighed and remained on his back to regain his strength after so relentless and arduous a journey.

  Several edible earth creatures approached. One, a delicious-looking morsel, whet his appetite as it climbed on his chest, regarded him with disdain, turned, and raised its striped tail.

  “Wailing welks! The stench!” Bastian barely knocked a bird from the perch above him as he rose and shot a small streak of fire the striper’s way.

  Tail smoking, it scurried into a cave.

  So this was rescue? Puncture wounds in his backside, reeking edibles, vengeful spirits, cold feet, and a flawed man spike?

  Being human could not be worse. Bastian’s head came up. Yes, yes it could. Killian could have taken his dragon magick.

  To test one of his skills, Bastian placed the flat of a hand on each of his travel wounds, and within a human heartbeat, the bloody gashes became new marks on his scar-ridden hide.

  “So far, Jock,” he told his unexpected companion, “I have kept my leap, my fire, and my healing power, and I have gained the ability to see spirits.”

  Jock danced about his shoulder and snuffle-puffed a swirl of red smoke. “Red is for celebrating,” his guardian said.

  Standing among trees and smaller vegetation, Bastian did not know where to begin looking for his heart mate. He did not remember his life as a Roman warrior, but he expected more color than on the island, not less.

  Except for a cozy cave or two, earth appeared to have little to offer. If this was indeed earth. It might not be.

  As if to counter his frustration, a human approached, fragile of feature, hair and body cloaked, except for the sticks holding up the back of her feet. These creatures walked on their toes?

  “My name is Vivica Quinlan,” she said, telepathically, the softness of her voice giving away her gender. “You found a skunk.”

  “If it is known for its stench, then yes, I did.”

  Vivica’s bright eyes danced as she handed him a cloak similar to hers, though his was as dark as a place without suns and as soft as a bustard’s ear. Broad as his shoulders and tall to the ground, it covered him. He held it together up front to hide his flaw.

  His greeter seemed unfazed by the air-snacks whirring about her head like a crown, making her look both regal and ridiculous. The hummers, red and green, looked no bigger than his thumb. The ugly black stick creatures with wide eyes, bony legs, and wings too big for their bodies emitted pings that bounced between one another and the objects around them.

  He had also retained his keen dragon hearing.

  Andra said he needed to find a crowned dragon. Instead a female crowned in winged snacks had found him.

  What other eerie and unexpected surprises would this centuries-overdue journey bring?

  THREE

  Beside Vivica Quinlan stood a steadfast and regal creature with white fur and black spots, a whirring deep in its being. Loyal, judging by its stance, it stood as tall as its master’s caressing hand.

  No snack, this, but a prize. Whiskered and long-legged, it wore the same covering as Vivica.

  “Your creature is unknown to me,” Bastian said.

  “She’s a Savannah cat, a feline,” she said, petting its head, cupping its twitching ears. “Isis is half wild, half domestic, and especially big for her kind. I’m honored to say that she chose me.”

  “But you wear the same fur as your feline.”

  “My cloak, you mean? Fake fur. I had it fashioned to look like Isis’s coat. No animals were harmed in its making.”

  Bastian thought of his dragon brothers. “I should hope not.”

  “We’re a pair, Isis and me, advertising my employment agency wherever we go.”

  “A pair,” he said, reading her with another of the senses he happily retained: the ability to read others. “You are not my heart mate.”

  “I am not. I am here to welcome you.”

  “You speak and understand dragon?”

  “Telepathy transcends languages, but to survive here, you will need to learn English. My employment agency, Works Like Magick, is a safe house where I will acclimate you to life on earth, and prepare you to take your place among us to earn your keep.”

  This female instinctively comprehended the import of his arrival. “Do you not fear me?”

  “I am never fooled by outward appearances. I have the sight. You are bold of spirit, fiercely protective, and pure of heart. I expect your journey was a long one?”

  “I traveled from the farthest life plane, before the nearest death plane.” Or so Andra told them when they arrived on the island centuries before.

  “I will need you to share your history with me during the days or weeks of your acclimation, so I may place you in a suitable work environment.”

  “That would seem prudent.” Bastian towered over his greeter, yet his cloak fit his length, so she must have anticipated his arrival in some way. “You possess magick of your own, do you not?”

  The tilt of her lips and the depth of her vision revealed wisdom and knowledge. “When the air shivers and the bats awake by day, they come for me with the hummingbirds, and I know the veil between the planes has been breached. Together, we greet the magickal, supernatural ancients, the chameleons of the universe, and we offer you our hospitality. You do realize that a small blue dragon and a teacup faery breached the veil with you?”

  “A faery?”

  “She hides behind you.”

  “That would account for the annoying wing whir in my ears.” Bastian kept his roar to an annoyed growl as he turned to catch the sprite by her wings. Contrary to p
opular belief, faery wings did not break. Holding them was the only way to catch so lively a creature.

  She struggled uselessly to free herself from his hold. “May you grow wooden limbs and attract woodpeckers,” she cursed.

  “Nice talk,” Bastian said, while Vivica bit her lip to hide her amusement.

  The tiny, annoying faery resembled a human female but with ear peaks, hair the color of silver stars, long, straight, and flying in the breeze, and wings bright and colorful as a flutterby. Feet bare, she wore a dress of sweet-scented flower petals, and a dewcup hat, stem up. Endearing in looks, perhaps, but completely lacking in manners. “How does one rid oneself of a flutterby faery with attitude?”

  “I believe it’s up to her. She might be with you to the end of your days.”

  Bastian groaned while the faery boxed his earlobe, her laughter mocking.

  Vivica cleared her throat. “And I think you meant ‘butterfly’ faery.”

  “Did I? Our human words were lost or mangled over the centuries but we knew what we meant.” Butterfly or flutterby, he thought, the tiny brat could be an enemy in disguise. In true form, she might be a roachwart with red swine bristles and a heaving stench.

  The sprite could also be a beacon signaling his presence to good and evil alike. Killian’s personal scout, perhaps. Bastian regarded his greeter—Vivica, she called herself—and supposed he should know where he landed before anyone else did, human or magickal. “Where exactly do I find myself?”

  “Salem’s End. Earthside Plane. Welcome.”

  FOUR

  Holding his cloak together, Bastian bowed. “I accept your hospitality and your welcome as a gift.”

  “Some call it a curse. I am descended from Ciarra McKenna, a powerful witch who lived in one of these caves to escape the hanging times—the witch hysteria, which you’ll learn about—though family legend says the caves were masked by a deep layer of thorny thickets and a spell or three. The land is now owned by one of Ciarra’s non-magickal descendents, a distant cousin of mine. Since it is now considered hallowed ground, the owner allows Salem witches to gather here.”

  “Witches are befriended these days?”

  “Yes, we are. Magick is not only tolerated but often desirable.”

  “I come from magick,” he said.

  His greeter nodded as if she knew. “We have that in common.”

  “I frightened a circle of women when I arrived.”

  “Witches, yes, I passed them on my way here. Most believe they went into a trance. Hopefully, none will guess that you are real.”

  Bastian followed his greeter from the grass and trees to a place with many paths. On them, trapped humans filled colorful noisemaking machines with stink powder coming out their hind ends. Vivica did not seem alarmed by the sight.

  “This is Salem proper,” she said. “Salem’s End is on the outskirts of the city, the Witch City, some call it.”

  Walking beside Vivica, scents and sights warred for prominence. People, human and not, wore cloaks similar to his. On some, shadow remnants of claws, spikes, fangs, snake hair, and such remained. Those without cloaks dressed different from one another.

  “Can they see the remnants of my past life?” Bastian asked. “Like my wings or horns?”

  “I can,” Vivica said, “but usually, neither humans nor supernaturals can see what is magickally hidden. Do you see the remnants of their past lives?”

  “I do. Is that bad?”

  “I’d say it’s desirable.”

  “Some have black hearts,” he noted.

  “Never trust a black heart.”

  “This I know.” He peeked at the trail of bony females behind them, many with legs exposed. They needed feeding and badly. “Vivica, why do females follow you?”

  She shook her head. “They’re following you, Bastian. You’re a fine specimen of manhood.”

  He looked back, locked gazes with each, but found none with a heart that spoke to his. “Supernaturals with good hearts seem happy here.”

  “The chameleons of the universe adapt to the mainstream, though there are gathering places where they socialize with their own kind. Underground clubs and such.”

  “How do they crawl beneath the dirt?”

  “You are a literal thinker, I see.” Vivica tapped her lips with a finger. “For you, I will have to pull out all my magick and give you the super deluxe mainstreaming culture acclimation package—language, customs, technology, and so forth. Ciarra also acclimated the magickal supernatural ancients,” Vivica said. “There were fewer of you back then, but these days, human magick has thinned the veil in Salem to a permeable mist.”

  FIVE

  “It’s raining men! Naked men to be precise. No, don’t adjust your TV sets, ladies and gentlemen. You heard right, and you heard it here first.”

  McKenna Greylock stopped mixing spackle and turned to the small TV on her kitchen counter.

  The sensationalist reporter flashed his best grin. “Several sources,” he continued, “have reported sightings in the past week of magickal beings entering Salem . . . without a spaceship. A spokesperson from a local coven believes that paranormals from other planes could, indeed, breach the veil into our own and live among us. How well do you know your neighbors? In other news—”

  McKenna turned off her TV. “I hate that reporter,” she said. “Lizzie, did you hear?” she called. “More other-worldly pod people breaching the veil.”

  “I heard,” Lizzie said, spackling one of the bedrooms. “Why don’t they just call us Roswell and get it over with?”

  “Tell me about it.” McKenna turned to a knock at the kitchen door but wished she hadn’t.

  Beelzebub calling.

  Face like an angel, a smile that could charm a rock, beneath which he lived. Blond. Blue eyes, empty, like his heart. Elliott Huntley, developer from hell.

  “Good morning, McKenna. May I come in?”

  She couldn’t believe she went on two dates with this gotta-like-me reptile, until she realized he was attracted to her land, not her. Would she never learn?

  She stepped out to her kitchen porch and closed the doors at her back. Otherwise, she’d have to fumigate. “You still can’t have my land.”

  “As spunky as ever.” He offered his hand, but she ignored it and walked to her porch rail at the side to look out over the old harbor in the distance. “Waterfront and water view,” she said. “That’s why you want it. I’ll bet condos here would go for plenty.”

  He flashed her one of his all-American-boy smiles. “I’m here to brighten your day.”

  “Sure you are.”

  Huntley was the kind of guy you could imagine wearing Uncle Sam’s top hat and kissing babies. “Hear me out, my friend,” he said. “You might be surprised.”

  “We’re not friends.”

  “Still, I’d hate for you to end up with nothing. I’d like to see you come out ahead for a change. How about I pay you a cool million, and you walk away from this property with your head high.”

  “If I walked, I’d be ashamed to raise my head.”

  “A million dollars, McKenna. It’s nearly August. Your ninety days are ticking down to your inevitable foreclosure. After the bank takes the place, I buy it from them, not you.” He ran his gaze over her porch. “A bed-and-breakfast, eh? It would take a lot of paying guests to keep you afloat, given your overdue mortgage and tax payments.”

  Which he should not know about.

  “And before you open to guests, there’s the little matter of getting the building inspector’s approval. Nice guy, the inspector. Lousy poker player, though.” Huntley compromised his perfect manicure by scratching a paint flake off her porch rail. “My condolences on the loss of your contractor, by the way. Bad luck, that.”

  She refused to satisfy the leech with a show of emotion. “Steve Framingham is still my contractor and he’s recovering nicely, thank you. He’ll be fit in plenty of time to get me up and running.” She so wished that were true. “I won’t sell, H
untley.”

  “I’m good at waiting. Haven’t you heard?”

  “Haven’t you heard that money isn’t everything? Or are you too far gone?”

  With a smile, he tipped a hat as fake as his manners. “The offer’s good for two weeks. Come August, I won’t be as generous. You’re losing money by the day.”

  You’re losing your soul, she thought. He wouldn’t know generous if it bit him in the balls. McKenna looked up and asked the universe to arrange that bite, please.

  Huntley waved as he backed his sleek, silver Aston Martin down the drive.

  She shivered. Seventy-five days left to turn this place into a bed-and-breakfast, and the only contractor she could afford was now confined to a wheelchair.

  Her debt had come to light with her mother’s death a couple of weeks ago, and she hadn’t had time to grieve, because she had to save a centuries-old legacy steeped in history.

  Yes, her heritage was up for grabs.

  Panic caught her by the throat and stole her breath, until she forced herself to calm and assess the situation rationally.

  Huntley had done her a favor by showing up today. He’d not only given her a shock, he’d given her a lowball clue as to the monetary value of her property, her priceless heritage aside.

  She understood, better than ever, that she couldn’t wait for Steve to get better; neither could she stage a one-woman fight against a powerhouse development company.

  Screw pride—she needed help.

  She grabbed her truck keys. “Lizzie, I’m going to look into selling my produce, then I gotta see a witch about a handyman. I won’t be gone long.”

  “I’ll probably still be here spackling when you get back.”

  “Thanks, friend.” Huntley, aka Dirtbag, had made one true statement. No time to waste. She needed a consistent influx of cash and she needed to hire someone Steve could direct from his wheelchair. Where better to find the perfect employee than at Works Like Magick?