by Cara Bristol
Under Fyre (Alien Dragon Shifter 1)
Betrayed by her people, does she dare trust a dragon?
The alien dragon shapeshifters who discover Earth come in peace—at first. Then, inexplicably, they threaten to attack. In an attempt to show goodwill and appease the dragons, Earth sends a human woman to become a concubine to one of the Draconian king’s sons, Prince K’ev.
K’ev would sooner give up his ability to breathe fire than accept a human, but when he meets Rhianna, sparks fly, and his dragon realizes she’s his mate.
Rhianna falls for the hot-blooded prince, unaware she’s a key link in a desperate scheme to defeat the dragons, a strike that could backfire with devastating consequences. Will she figure out what Earth has planned in time to save her dragon mate? And if she does, will K’ev be able to save her planet from the fire of angry king’s retaliation?
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* * * *
Line of Fyre (Alien Dragon Shifters 3)
You know things are bad on Earth when you’re the president’s daughter and becoming a concubine to an alien dragon shifter seems like your best option…
Helena Marshfield made a big mistake. But making it right puts her life in danger. She’s forced to flee and become the concubine of the Draconian prince. She never expects to be attracted to the "dragon man," and has no intention of making the relationship real.
Prince T’mar has no wish to consort with a human. Unfortunately, his father, the king, decrees he must accept her, his dragon mistakes her for their mate, and worse, the flame-haired female stirs his desires. Still, he intends to deposit her at the palace and fly away.
But when powers on Earth draw them into the line of fire, will their unexpected, unwanted burning attraction be the one thing that can save them?
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* * * *
An excerpt from Chameleon: Alien Dragon Shifter 1
Plop!
Serenaded by the rain’s pitter-patter, Kevanne snuggled under Grandma’s quilt in a peaceful fog between sleep and wakefulness until a water droplet hit her smack on a closed eyelid. Her eyes popped open.
Plop! Another drop landed on her forehead.
Plop. Plop.
WTF? She shook off the drowsiness, her gaze zeroing in on a brown splotch staining the ceiling.
Plop!
“No, not the roof! Why?” She flung off the quilt. After donning her robe and slippers to ward off the chill of the cold spring morning, she dragged the mattress away from the leak and propped it up against the wall. She couldn’t afford to buy a new mattress and replace the roof. Who was she kidding? She couldn’t afford the roof!
She placed a large kitchen pot under the drip and then searched her small, two-bedroom house for more signs of leakage.
None, thank goodness. Maybe the damage wasn’t too bad. Maybe she could patch the leak, and it wouldn’t cost too much. She sighed. Coffee first. She put on a pot to brew and went to get dressed. No sense showering just to crawl around on the roof. She donned some warm clothes, including heavy wool socks and boots with some serious tread so she wouldn’t fall and break a leg.
After a quick fortification of some strong black coffee, she slipped on her raincoat and trudged to the barn. The faint manure odor indicated a previous owner had kept horses, but Kevanne used the outbuilding for storage.
She found a tarp, and, with it tucked under her arm, lugged an aluminum extension ladder to the house. She propped it against the pine-needle-clogged rain gutters and climbed onto the roof. At least the rain had stopped—temporarily, but the clouds remained low and heavy, darkening the morning to a dreary gray, typical for April in northern Idaho. A single patch of brightness lightened the eastern sky where the clouds had thinned a tad.
She picked her way over the slippery shingles, praying she wouldn’t fall or damage the roof further. At forty years old, the house had been around longer than she had, and the roof appeared to be original. She’d been informed the property needed repairs when she’d bought it, but every day she discovered something else needed fixing. At this rate, Dayton’s life insurance money would run out before she could get the business up and running.
“Instead of Lavender Bliss Farm, I should have called it Money Pit Ranch,” she muttered, but surveying her twenty-five-acre domain from the rooftop, she reminded herself how far she’d come. She inhaled a deep breath of rain, earth, pine, and lavender. The fragrance of hope. Her once impossible dream had become a possible reality.
She’d closed escrow a couple of months ago. Most of the parcel was treed with pines and cedars, but five acres had been cleared, some areas planted with lavender. The most recent former owners, an elderly couple, had allowed the field to fallow, but she’d recognized the potential.
Kevanne always had loved lavender and for years had purchased the flowers from nurseries for potpourri, wreaths, and jellies. Now she had her freedom and a chance to become a successful business owner. While the latter was not assured, she vowed no one would ever steal the former from her again.
If only the damn rain would let up so she could till and plant the fields. Once the farm got squared away, she planned to open a gift shop in time for the summer tourist season. The outbuilding at the edge of her property fronting the main highway had been used for that purpose before. However, like everything else, it had fallen into disrepair.
Over her bedroom, near the peak, she found the problem. A swath of shingles was missing. She noted other shingles that curled, some that were loose. One good wind, and they’d be gone. She spread the tarp over the problem area, draping it on both sides of the peak so the rain would hit the plastic and roll off, rather than seep underneath. Belatedly, she realized she needed weight to hold it in place or the slightest breeze would send it sailing.
She crept back to the ladder, climbed down, and tromped to the barn where she gathered a couple of two-by-fours and a half dozen bricks. It took a few trips up the ladder to haul it all onto the roof, but she got the tarp weighted down.
“That ought to do it.” She dusted her cold hands on her jeans. She’d have one more cup of coffee and then run into town. Argent, population: not enough, boasted of little except a diner, an antique store, two tiny churches, one bar, and a bait-and-tackle shop doubling as a hardware store. The latter had a bulletin board where locals could post ads. She’d seen Handyman for Hire flyers in the past—maybe she’d get lucky and see one today.
Besides fixing the roof, a good handyman could make a dent in the long list of needed repairs.
She was stepping toward the ladder when a meteorite burst through the cloud-break and streaked across the sky like a huge flaming bullet. A shooting star! Quick. Make a wish. Kevanne squeezed her eyes shut. Send me my dream man—a handyman. She opened her eyes in time to see the meteorite slow before dropping out of sight behind the tree line. It’s going to hit the ground! She braced for an explosion, but none came.
“What the heck?” She’d never seen a falling star do that before. The meteorite had moved like it was guided. So, missile maybe? Except, unless somebody punched a wrong button in a major snafu, she doubted the government would send a test missile over Argent, Idaho.
Maybe it’s a UFO! She chuckled.
Then sobered.
UFOs were possible. She’d read how an Intergalactic Dating Agency arranged meet-and-greets between humans and aliens. But the IDA district offices were located in major cities, not in towns too small to have a grocery store. No one around for hundreds of miles had ever seen a real, live extraterrestrial. No alien would ever want to settle in Argent.
Tourists—winter snowboarders and summer boaters and water skiers—would make a pit stop in town, but Argent was the kind of no man’s land that high school kids fled the day after graduation and where everybody knew everybody, but there was nobody to date. Which was fine by her because at the ripe old age of thirty-six, she had sworn off men. She’d rather become
a crazy lavender lady than marry or even date.
Become? She was already there! She’d fancied she’d spotted a UFO. It was a meteorite!
Still, she should check out the impact site. She hadn’t heard or seen an explosion, but it could have started a fire. Although the ground was a mucky mess from all the rain, anything could burn if it got hot enough. A meteorite screaming through the atmosphere produced a lot of heat. It would be her bad luck to lose the farm to a forest fire caused by a meteorite strike. If a fire had started, and it was still small, she could put it out herself. If it had spread, she’d call the fire department.
The meteorite’s arc seemed to have landed it in the national forest on the other side of the Ditterman place, currently vacant while the snowbirds soaked up sun in Florida.
She stowed the ladder in the barn then raced to the house to grab a coffee-to-go and the keys to the quad. She’d bought the vehicle used after seeing a flyer on the bait store bulletin board. She’d needed a work vehicle for the property and had gotten a good deal.
She stuck her coffee in the handlebar cup holder, bungeed a shovel to the back grille, hopped on, fired up the four-wheeler, and zoomed toward the national forest.
* * * *
“Somebody is headed this way,” Shadow said.
“Put the feed on the main view screen.” Tigre motioned.
The Castaway had landed in a small secluded clearing among the trees, but because the matter-energy converter had been damaged, they’d been unable to activate the cloaking device, leaving the craft visible to anyone who might happen by. Fortunately, they had been able to release a surveillance drone.
On the screen, a human steered a wheeled vehicle through the trees.
“What the herian is she riding?” Wingman gawked.
“That must be one of their fossil-fueled vehicles,” Chameleon surmised. He’d heard about them; he’d never seen one. It was astounding humans ever made it into space.
“Do you think she saw the Castaway land?” Wingman asked.
“I would say the timing is too much of a coincidence for it to be otherwise,” Tigre said. “She’s coming to investigate.”
“We can’t have that,” Chameleon said. “Until we can evaluate the natives and determine how receptive they are, it’s best if we remain out of sight.”
“You said because of the Intergalactic Dating Agency, humans would be receptive to aliens,” Wingman said.
“Yes, but we’re not with the IDA. Humans aren’t expecting us. Furthermore, my understanding is Earth is divided into different political and cultural provinces. It’s possible not everyone has been exposed to extraterrestrials, so we can’t assume they will all be welcoming. They could be dangerous.”
“Agreed.” Tigre stroked one of his facial stripes. “Caution should always be the first priority when introducing oneself to new and primitive life-forms. How far away is he?”
“I believe the human is a she.” Chameleon studied the rider. The bright-yellow garment she wore had a hood, but it had fallen back to reveal a mass of curly brown hair.
Shadow peered at his console. “About one kreptac. At her present rate of speed, she’ll reach us in three minutes.”
“Get Psy,” Tigre said. “Have him intercept the female, do a mind wipe, and relocate her—”
“Before we do anything drastic, let me try to get rid of her,” Chameleon interjected. They had no way of knowing how a human would react to a mind-cleansing. Would the last few minutes be erased? Or would she lose days or years? How far back would the amnesia go? He had dedicated his life to saving others; he hated to rob this human of her identity unless there was no other choice.
“What can you do?” Wingman asked.
“I can personify an Earth life-form and convince her to leave.”
“Okay. Try that first, but bring Psy with you as backup,” Tigre said. “If you can’t get her to leave, then Psy needs to do a mind wipe.”
“Better hurry,” Shadow said. “She’ll have us in sight in two minutes.”
Psy met him at the hatch. “We need to split up,” Chameleon said. “I’ll approach her. You should remain out of sight, unless I call for you.”
They exited the craft. The rumble of a primitive engine indicated they didn’t have long. Psy veered left, ducking into the thicker flora, and Chameleon trotted off to intercept the human. He had to see a life-form to be able to personify it. He couldn’t mimic the female herself because she would think it strange if she came face-to-face with a doppelgänger. Fortunately, as the Castaway had descended into the field, he’d caught sight of an indigenous life-form.
* * * *
Kevanne idled on the quad considering whether to proceed or go home. Recent storms had knocked down a large fir, which lay across the service road. Too much fallen timber lay in the dense woods to allow the quad to pass through easily. She sniffed the air, but smelled only fresh, rain-drenched evergreen and a tinge of exhaust from the four-wheeler. If there’d been a fire, there should have been signs of smoke by now.
Maybe the meteorite hadn’t struck out here. Distances could be deceptive. It could have hit the next county over—or burned itself out before landing.
Except a fireball that big wouldn’t burn out. So, maybe it was a UFO. Which would be really cool! She’d never met an alien.
As a kid, she’d seen every episode of every Star Trek and all the Star Wars movies. The sci-fi channel was her favorite as an adult. Dayton who’d watched auto racing and football had mocked her favorite shows. He’d pulled the plug in the middle of one episode. She’d yelled at him, and—
It’s over. It’s over. She cut the engine to the quad. In the silence, she inhaled the scent of damp earth and evergreen and released the bad memories on the exhale. They ought to bottle this smell, she thought then chuckled. They did bottle it. You could buy pine-scented everything.
What she didn’t smell was smoke. She didn’t hear any crackling. She should return to the house, make a honey-do list, go to town, and hire somebody. Maybe she’d treat herself to a burger at Millie’s and drop in at the antique store and see if they had anything “new.” She couldn’t afford to buy much—she had to save the insurance money for the business—but occasionally she’d find a bargain on a treasure. Like her patchwork quilt. The fabric squares reminded her of the kind of patterns used for men’s boxer shorts, but she imagined some grandma lovingly sewing it from bits and pieces of clothing that had belonged to the family. Sometimes she pretended her grandma—the one who died when Kevanne was a baby—had sewn it.
I’d better go back. I have a lot to do today.
But instead of firing up and reversing the four-wheeler, she swung her leg over and slid off. She loved hiking in the woods, but with the bad weather, she hadn’t been out in days. She checked the sky. Still gray—and the forecast had predicted at least two more days and two more inches of precipitation. The light spot where the meteorite-fireball-not-UFO had broken through had filled in with dark clouds.
Better make haste before the next deluge.
She jumped over the log and hurried up the forest service road, surveying left and right for any signs that something big and fiery had hit. She’d gone maybe a quarter mile when a chuffing noise caused the hair on her nape to stand up.
She froze.
A huge bear lumbered around the bend.
Bear! Oh god! Bear! What do I do? What do I do? Play dead? Climb a tree—no, bears can climb. Walk away? Oh my god. The shovel. I left the shovel on the quad.
She recalled that you needed to behave differently if the animal was a black bear or a grizzly. While the latter were territorial, the former were predatory. This animal’s coat was light brown like a grizzly’s, but black bears could range from light to dark. Why did I have to run into a bear? Why did I leave the shovel on the quad?
Everything in her screamed to run like hell, but she knew better. She inched away, not taking her eyes off the animal. It lifted its head and stared at her. It had weir
dly light, almost-silver intelligent-appearing eyes, and she’d almost swear the animal had sought her gaze.
“Stay there, Mr. Bear, stay there.” She spoke softly, partly because she’d recalled you were supposed to speak in a nonthreatening tone, but mostly because she was so freaking scared, she could hardly croak out the words. “I mean you no harm. It’s just little old me, and I’m going to leave now. You can have the woods all to yourself.”
Her heart pounded like she’d run twelve blocks.
I have to get to the quad. Have to get to the quad.
With excruciating slowness, she inched one small step at a time until she smacked into something solid. A scream bubbled up into her throat until she realized she’d gotten off the path and backed into a tree. Maybe she could duck into the woods?
She vetoed that idea—the bear could travel through overgrown brush better and faster than she could. “Go away! Please, go away.” She waved her arms, but the animal continued to stalk her. He’s not leaving. Oh god. It’s a black bear. He’s going to eat me. She tried to step back onto the road, but the belt of her yellow slicker caught on a branch. As she tore it free, she bumped a hard lump in her pocket.
She dug inside and pulled out a canister of bear spray. Hands shaking, she uncapped it, dropping the lid.
The bear stood right there. Saliva dripped from its muzzle, and its odd silver eyes gleamed. It reared up on its hinds legs and let out a menacing growl.
Kevanne shot it in the face.
The bear howled, a surprisingly man-like sound.
She screamed and ran.
She tore down the road as fast as her legs would go. She expected to hear the thundering footfalls of a bear in pursuit, expected a swipe by a massive clawed paw, but she didn’t stop. She ran and ran. She leaped over the fallen log and jumped onto the quad. Firing it up, she reversed and sped away.
* * * *
“She’s gone.” Psy emerged from the woods. “Are you all right?”