by J. P. Rice
Owen hung up without saying goodbye. Why didn’t he just tell me what was going on?
“Titania. Keep an eye on Ossias,” I said as I got up from the couch. “I’ve got to go over to Owen’s.”
“Why?” she asked and jumped over to the coffee table. “He just left here less than an hour ago.”
“There seems to be a problem.”
Her multifaceted eyes shone with concern. “What’s the problem?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s what I need to find out.”
I grabbed my purse and coat and headed for the door wondering what the hell was going on. It had to be a problem with the dragons. Or were they starting to hatch? My mind raced faster than my speeding Jeep as I cruised across town and arrived at Owen’s in record time.
I got to the front door and couldn’t remember if I had turned the vehicle off or left it running. I pounded on his front door.
Owen opened the door and I rushed in. I asked, “What is going on?”
I peered around at his normally immaculate house and wondered what the mess was from. Papers were strewn about his kitchen instead of the perfect stacks on the table that I was accustomed to seeing.
“We have a major problem.” He pointed to the basement steps, and my heart sank.
I prepared to see a bunch of busted egg shells and no dragons. What else could it be?
When I hit the landing to the basement, I almost stepped on the Plexiglas lid to the incubator. Oh, shit. I glanced across the room at the base of the incubator. It was empty. Every, single egg was missing. A familiar cocktail of anger and panic mixed inside me.
My knees felt like they were about to give out. “Don’t let anyone else in here until we can sweep the place for fingerprints and figure out who did it.”
“I’m afraid I know who has done this.” He sighed and lowered his head.
“Who?”
He looked up at me, blinking rapidly. “My business partner, Roald.”
“I thought you said you guys were working out of an office now.” I paced over to the empty incubator. “You said you took his keys to the house.”
“And I did,” he said, raising his right hand. “I’m thinking he made a spare key and used that to gain entry. He knew I was going to be late today because I told him I was going to meet you.”
“Let’s get to his house.” I went for the steps and wondered why Owen hadn’t budged. “Quick. Come on.”
“This is a good news, bad news scenario.”
“How so?” I asked and turned to face him.
“I have a tracking device in Roald’s diamond earring,” he grinned proudly. “And he never removes it for more than a few minutes. It’s like a second signature.”
“Does he know about it?”
“He does not.”
“That sounds like the good news.” I bounced around trying to contain my rage.
“Indeed, it is,” he confirmed, and his grin faded. “He is currently at the airport.”
“Well, let’s go then.” I took off for the staircase again. “Shake a leg.”
“Our hands are tied at the moment, it should seem,” he explained.
“What? Why?”
“If he is in the terminal, we can’t just storm in and drag him out of there. Besides, he’s likely traveling on a private plane.” His shaky hand dove into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and produced his pipe.
“Why not?”
He pulled out a pouch of tobacco. “Because...”
“I know why,” I cut him off. “I’m just shaking with anger right now. Why didn’t you change the locks? I can’t believe you let this happen.”
“I didn’t let anything happen,” he said, his voice growing stern. “I’m just as mad as you. I can’t control the behavior of another individual. I tried to take all the precautions necessary. I’m quite certain a new set of locks wouldn’t have stopped him. How was I to know that my business partner of twenty plus years would do something like this?”
“You’re right.” I took a deep breath. “I need to calm down if that is even possible right now.”
“Would you like a drink?” He put his packed pipe up to his mouth.
“Not unless it’s Roald’s blood. I need to keep a clear head. In fact, I need to get home and make sure no one has any crazy ideas about Ossias.”
“I think she will be all right.” Owen lit his pipe and hit it a few times. “Roald must have grown suspicious when I moved our operation elsewhere. I can only assume he saw the eggs, then set up a plan to steal them. You think you know somebody.”
“I still don’t want to leave Ossias now.” I paced the length of his fireplace nervously. “I want her right by my side at all times. Do you have any idea where he might be headed?”
Owen grabbed a rectangular object from the table. He stared at the gray device that resembled a remote control. “He’s headed west at a rapid speed. He must be on a plane now.”
“Fook.” I couldn’t just shift into a dragon and follow the plane. I wanted to, but it wouldn’t work. “How are we going to follow him?”
He squinted in confusion. “I believe we will have to board a plane as well.”
“But how can I take Ossias with us?” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I’m not leaving her behind.”
“Yes, well, it should seem that children can complicate things,” he stated as two trails of smoke exited his nostrils.
“I can’t board a plane with her even if I claim she is my emotional support dragon.”
Owen chuckled and then caught himself and stopped.
“I have a few friends who are extremely well off,” he said in a serious tone. “They have private jets. I might be able to coax them into taking us where we need to go. They are complicated people though. Negotiation might involve some strange requests.”
“Make some calls,” I urged him. “See what the price will be and then we can go from there. I’m going home. Call me if anything come us. I mean anything. Even if something seems insignificant, call me.”
“You’ve got it. And Junipher.” He paused for a few moments. “I promise we will get your dragons back.”
His pledge didn’t slow down my racing heart or inject any feeling back into my numb body. Why would a pitbull shifter steal dragon eggs? I only had to ponder it for a second to realize that anyone would love to have dragons. He could also sell them too.
I got home and Titania and Ossias were in the living room. I sighed heavily in relief. As I explained the situation to Titania, I fought back tears. Titania zipped off diligently to pack for the trip. I scooped up Ossias from the couch and clutched her to my heart.
“Some jerk has taken your brothers and sisters,” I said softly and rubbed the tiny spikes on top of her head with my thumb. “But don’t worry, we will find him.”
Later that day, Owen called and informed me that Roald had landed in San Diego. We weren’t sure how long he would stay so we had to act quickly. As I started to pack, I threw the Dagda’s Harp inside one of my bags. Maybe we could stop in Seattle after we rescued my dragons.
That took a backseat to the main objective, which was finding my dragons and bringing them home safely.
THANK YOU FOR READING!!!!
IF YOU ENJOYED THESE STORIES, YOU WOULD PROBABLY LIKE J.P. RICE’S DANCING WITH DEMONS-THE BEGINNER’S GUIDE TO SELLING YOUR SOUL. I WILL LEAVE A SAMPLE OF IT OR YOU CAN CHECK IT OUT ON AMAZON: https://readerlinks.com/l/673362
Copyright 2019 by Jason Paul Rice (J.P. Rice)
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. All names are made up and used fictionally. Any resemblance to real people is completely coincidental. Any resemblance to real events is only part of the author’s imagination.
CHAPTER 1
Standing in my driveway, mun
ching a melting Snickers bar, with dusk looming and cicadas chirping, I leaned down and picked up the newspaper. A fresh flowery scent lingered in the muggy, early summer air as I strolled into the garage and took a gander at the headline of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette.
“Gone without a trace. Another young woman vanishes.”
I closed the garage door and skimmed the first paragraph.
“Another twenty-one-year-old of similar height and weight to the others. That seems to be the only pattern. Has to be a supernatural being,” I muttered to myself as I chewed up the last bite of my candy bar and tossed the wrapper in the tiny garbage can.
Having been through a traumatic event like this, I understood the helpless feeling. Most parents would agree that the safety of their children is their number one priority. Every loving parent has envisioned nightmarish scenarios involving their son or daughter. It’s just what parents do.
However, nothing can prepare a parent to deal with the reality of a missing child. When a paralyzing beast known as despondency sinks its bloody fangs into your soul, it is almost impossible to remain positive.
Imagine a world without crime. Impossible, right? Well, that is my ultimate dream. Law and order were two societal cornerstones I held dear, and they were getting trampled in my city.
Fourteen young ladies had gone missing over the past three months and the authorities didn’t seem to have a single clue to go on. No bodies had been found. The women were out there. Still alive? Hopefully.
Saddled with family responsibilities due to my father’s untimely death, my hands were tied. I wished I could do something—anything—to make the screwed-up world just a little bit better.
My father had instilled a passion for criminal justice in me. I wanted to take the power from the crooks and put it back in the hands of the victims and their families, where it belonged. Unfortunately, my job in construction prevented me from actively pursuing it. I chuckled at the idea of dishing out vigilante justice with a shovel and nail gun.
Also, I had no connections with law enforcement officers or supernatural detectives. I’d always fancied myself as an amateur sleuth, but I had no real experience in the field. Arm shaking from equal parts frustration and anger, I tossed the newspaper on top of a stack of folding chairs.
Instead of chasing down the perpetrator responsible for the missing women, I grabbed a rag to chase away the cobwebs in my garage.
“Hey. Anyone care to help out?” I yelled into the house to my brothers and sisters.
I hated cleaning the garage. Life’s distractions conspired with procrastination to turn spring cleaning into late June cleaning. I couldn’t put it off any longer, but it also wouldn’t kill my little brothers to give me a hand. As soon as I mentioned the cleanup, everyone suddenly remembered a forgotten homework assignment.
I could play that game too. I wandered over to the door that led to our backyard and set the cleaning rag on a spare tire. Looking through the split windowpanes, I put my hand on the warm knob and froze.
A plump, red-eyed blackbird the size of a penguin sat on a plastic outdoor table in all its resplendent glory. It had the characteristics of an enormous raven, and its burning burgundy eyes prompted me to remove my hand from the doorknob.
I was surprised the cheap table could support its weight. A gigantic red-eyed raven, huh? Perhaps it was a sign I should stay inside and stick to my cleanup effort. I grabbed the rag and peeked outside again. Out of sight, the raven couldn’t have wandered too far.
Brushing off the odd occurrence, I moved the bookshelf away from the wall to dust behind it, releasing a musty aroma that stuck in the back of my throat. As the shelf screeched along the concrete floor, a book tumbled to the ground. I bent down and picked up The Rise of the Slumbering Dragons. My all-time favorite bedtime story.
My mother had crafted a cloth dust jacket for the old book because the spine was cracked and frayed. She had woven a near-perfect replica of the cover art, which featured three sleeping dragons in a green valley with mountain peaks in the background.
Feeling nostalgic, I peeled back the soft jacket to compare it to the original hardback cover. A flat white rectangle slid out, fluttered through the air, and landed on my shoe.
I set down the book and opened the innocuous sheet of blue-lined notebook paper. Someone had rough-sketched a map, and there was some handwriting at the top and bottom. In the extended margin at the top, in my father’s writing, it was marked, “*Give to Ezekiel on June 23 of his 22nd year.*”
I snatched my phone out of my pocket and checked the date. June 23. But I was only twenty-one. Ha, ha. Oh, wait. My champagne celebration was short-lived as I realized I was older than twenty-one, which meant I was in my twenty-second year. What the hell kind of voodoo was going on here?
As I perused the paper, I discovered that it was a treasure map of the woods behind our house. Hmm. In script, at the bottom of the page, it read, “Hope, Faith and Charity.”
“Guess I should clean up that shovel over there,” I mumbled to myself as I glided across the garage and scooped up the tool.
Like Elmer Fudd with his shotgun, I rested the shovel on my shoulder. I wasn’t sure what I was hunting, but it wasn’t a wascawwy wabbit. Just before I left the garage, my trench coat caught my eye. Despite the blazing heat, it seemed like the perfect attire to execute a treasure hunt.
I swiped it from the hook, and as soon as it hugged my body, the sweat began to flow. I went outside, remaining wary of the raven. A few footsteps later, the sticky humidity attacked me, and the dam of perspiration broke on my face and head, the warm liquid already trickling from the stubble on my chin. The sacrifices I made to look the part.
The directions on the map led me to the beaten path in the woods behind our backyard.
I came to the first big X marked, “Witch hazel shrub.” Following the map, I hooked a right off the beaten trail and plunged into a denser area populated with ferns and jagger bushes. Fifteen footsteps later, I carefully maneuvered around some jaggers to get to the next clue.
“Oak tree trunk with X carved into it.” It had faded somewhat over the years, and even in the falling darkness, it still stood out, plain as day.
I went left from there and hopped over a moss-covered tree branch. The final destination was only a few feet away in the form of a copper pipe that had been pounded into the ground.
I stuffed the paper in my back pocket and went to put the shovel to good use. As I did, a huge wind burst kicked up, blowing tiny particles into my eyes. I blinked to recover, a blurry image coming into focus. A deafening squawk caused me to spring back, away from the sound source.
Five feet away, pecking the ground with its beak, stood the red-eyed raven. It used its beak to clear away some brush, exposing another copper pipe—this one barely poking out of the ground. With insistent head movements, it pointed to the pipe, encouraging me to dig there.
I considered myself relatively brave. However, my legs didn’t stand in unity with that bravery, and wouldn’t carry me closer to a predatory bird half my size. Sensing my apprehension, the giant raven stumbled backward, two elegant wings extending from its body. Powerful wing beats caused me to turn away and avoid the building dust storm.
The avian breeze felt nice, whistling through my hair and providing temporary relief from the nasty humidity. A few moments later, the uneven wind slowed, then came to a stop. I lifted my chin, head poking around, trying to see if the raven had landed on a nearby branch.
When I didn’t see it anywhere, my bravery buoyed, and I shuffled my feet over to the other copper pipe. Apparently, the first pipe I had found was a decoy, set by my father to throw someone off the trail, or perhaps the raven was a joker. One way to find out: I brushed away the leaves and twigs around the pipe first, then started digging.
The dying sunlight added difficulty, especially under the forest canopy. I also had no clue what I was searching for. How big was it?
I got about three feet into the ground and h
it something small, but solid. I spiked the shovel, dropped to my knees and used my hands to pry a rectangular object out of the soil. An old cigar box sat in my palm.
I swept it clean the best I could and rose slowly. It had weight to it. A dramatic drumroll played in my head, my heart beating along with it. The moment of truth. I took a deep breath and cracked the lid of the box.
And...it was full of...dirt. Nothing but soggy soil. Was this supposed to be some lesson my father had planned to teach me? A Zen style of thinking? Don’t expect anything and you will never be disappointed?
Ah well. With my monotonous life, even a few fleeting moments of excitement were nice. Wait a second. Maybe the raven had tried to throw me off the real trail.
I overturned the box in my hand and dumped out the moist mold of dirt. It splintered upon hitting the ground. Wisps of smoke rose from the cracks and thickened into roiling thunder clouds, which then transitioned into a dense apparition that floated in front of me. The obsidian fog twisted, breaking apart and forming indistinct shapes, then blending back together.
Several sudden movements later, a figure took form. I took two steps back—eyes wide with wonder and concern for my well-being, my jaw agape—and wrapped my fingers around the shovel. Just in case.
An elongated face, extended neck, two outstretched wings, four legs, and a huge body came into sharp focus a mere three feet in front of me. The rough outline of a dragon expanded until it was about ten feet from chin to backside, not including the long tail. A swirling mass of flame developed in the belly of the intangible beast.
Words sprang from the phantom’s mouth, and I felt the fiery heat burn against my cheeks, “Who dares come to claim the treasure of Arameus, the Smoky Dragon?” The dragon spoke English with a slight French accent, its voice deep and booming.
I chortled unexpectedly. “Sorry. Are you related to Smokey Bear, by chance?”
Being a smartass extraordinaire, I couldn’t help myself.
“Smokey Bear? Who is this Smokey Bear you speak of?” the dragon asked with a tinge of anger attached to its words.