Hollywood Dragon: BBW Dragon Shifter Paranormal Romance (8 page)

“Excellent. The bad news?”

“Another set of them attacked Alma Jimenez.”

“What? I saw her out on patrol right before I transformed and came home. She was fine—there was nothing out of place anywhere.”

“We
all
thought everything was fine. But they must have been lying to ground so we couldn’t see or smell them, and attacked at dawn when we all came back.”

“Dammit. Where was this?”

“Out by the old sulfur spring.”

“There’s nothing out there! It’s just the connecting road between the Hsing and Alvarado ranches.” JP rubbed his temples, trying to press the headache out. It didn’t work.

“Right. This is about intimidation, pure and simple. I’m sure those two at the municipal building were planning to jump whatever clerk or office jock first showed up for work today. If their aim wasn’t the council.”

“Shit.”

“Anyway Alma messed up their plans some. Managed to get a call off before they jumped her. From the blood and the scents, I’d say she damaged three of them at least as badly as she’s been hurt, but she’s been a good cop too long to kill.”

“Too bad she didn’t finish them,” JP said, teeth gritted against the spiking heat of his fire dragon. “Did you get their scents?”

“Oh, yes. Everyone with a nose is coming out here in relays. Dennis will see to that. I’ve got to get back to the Willises, keep them busy. And safe.”

“Right. Where is Alma?”

“On her way to the hospital. Doc Goldstein has been alerted, so he’ll supervise. But Jeep, even for a shifter she is in real bad shape.”

“I’m on my way as soon as I let the Consejo know.”

They rang off, and he leaned against the wall, fighting to get control of the fury. He turned his mind to Jan, and her image steadied him, like snow on a lava lake.

Jan.

He felt the pressure of danger, and expectation, and duty, and knew he must get moving, but he shut his eyes as an inner voice whispered, resonating from soul to heels:

“She is the one.”

Chapter Eight

Jan’s friendship with Shelley had really begun when Shelley casually mentioned that her brother Finn always seemed to know when someone important was about to call. Or that her great-grandmother had always warned them when a quake was about to hit.

Shelley had never looked for magic as ardently as Jan, but she had accepted its possibility the way she accepted everything else in life.

Jan’s first thought as she walked back toward the motel was to tell Shelley about the wolf-man, the egret-girl, and the hawk-man, then she stopped herself.
This week is not about me, it’s about Shelley. And Mick
.

Nothing, she vowed, was going to get in the way of Shelley’s wedding week. The weird stuff was really, really cool, but not important. Those people obviously thought their transformations secret, so it wasn’t like their natures would have any impact on the wedding.

And she had other things to think about. She smiled, her body singing with the echo of pleasure when she remembered what happened in the shell. Frustrating at the time, until he said,
Shall we meet later?

She still didn’t really believe it was possible, so she refused to think of the future. The now was amazing enough—they both loved music. He seemed to want her as much as she wanted him.

The world had changed, colors brighter, the air sweeter with possibility.

Reality intruded, as it always did. She sensed that there was a whole lot he wasn’t saying—probably having to do with those politics—but that would go with the cool, controlled personality. Keep it simple, she thought. Keep it light.

Shall we meet later?
That meant there was going to be a later. And a longer one. Right now, that was enough.

She was still smiling when she got back to the motel, let herself into her room, and checked her phone, which she had left behind so it wouldn’t ring while she was practicing.

One message—from Shelley. “Jan, I am guessing you went over to practice your song. Great! If you want to join us, come down to the Volkovs’.”

Jan put away her music and left. As she walked down the block to the Volkovs’ she looked at the houses that she had dismissed as so alike on her arrival that first night.

They were the same small houses, built probably in the twenties or so, judging by the small rooms and narrow windows, but some had flower boxes below each window, others had pretty gardens. There were subtle individual touches that made her curious about the lives within.

All at once she wondered if that boring main street was like a Hollywood backdrop—depicting a boring town of the sort nobody would want to stop in, except to get gas and then back on the highway. These supposedly plain little houses each had their secret beauties, but you had to look for them.

When she reached the Volkovs and stretched out her hand to the knocker, she paused, wondering if smiling gargoyle had extra meaning.

Now she was leaping to conclusions! She couldn’t imagine that kindly elderly Russian couple knowing anything about egret-girls and hawk-men.

Shelley answered the door and welcomed her inside, where she found a buffet spread of breakfast breads, eggs, coffee, and tea. As Shelley gestured to help herself, Jan sifted the voices, hearing only the high hum of females.

Shelley said quietly, “Mick and Dennis took all the guys out for some dirt bike racing. They’ll meet up with JP for Mick’s bachelor party. I don’t think we’ll see them until tomorrow.”

Jan hid the sharp pang of disappointment. Okay, so ‘later’ meant tomorrow. She resigned herself to a long day as Shelley’s family, on their best behavior, made conversation with Baba Marisia.

The clock crawled inexorably until it was time to get ready. Shelley said, “Though an afternoon tea anywhere else would mean something nice, Mick says that for Mrs. LaFleur, it’s formal.”

Baba Marisia nodded. “Helena LaFleur is very fine woman, but never forgets she is
lady
.”

No wonder JP was so buttoned up, looking like a prince at a picnic, if that was what he’d grown up with. Jan followed the others out to the car, smiling at the inner picture of him in white tie and tails at a barbeque. Or what he’d look like as she peeled off the layers of his tux, one item at a time . . .

They caravanned to the LaFleurs’ in two cars, so that no one’s clothes would get squashed. Jan veered between nerves and intense curiosity to see the inside of the house besides the music room.

She wasn’t disappointed.

Mrs. LaFleur met them at the door herself, wearing a linen suit that had to come straight from Paris. She greeted each of them, then said, “Please call me Helena.”

Jan was secretly amused to see Mrs. Willis, weather-browned and tough from years of bawling directions on the basketball court, and Shelley’s granny, who had grown up in the Depression, both acting wide-eyed on their best behavior. No way were they going to say ‘Helena,’ she bet herself—and she was right.

They were conducted into the house. As Mrs. LaFleur passed, Jan caught the faintest, wonderful whiff of Jicky, an expensive Parisian perfume. The whitewashed walls and heavy, beautifully carved and polished wooden furniture was a combination of Spanish and French provincial—the real McCoy, too. Same with the art, landscapes and portraits by Spanish and French artists, mostly, with some early American impressionists. Perfectly arranged floral arrangements added color to the white and brown with accents of gold, and the tiled floors.

Then Mrs. LaFleur led them into an entirely French room done in shades of pale blue and rose and white, with oval portraits and framed embroidery that had to date back three or four centuries. Here they were introduced to Mrs. Nair, Helena LaFleur’s mother, and a host of other important women of the town, whose names flew by too fast for Jan to catch.

A magnificent tea service awaited them, as well as a table of gorgeous little pastries on gold-rimmed porcelain. Three servants in white and black starched uniforms moved noiselessly among them with cups, saucers, and plates.

Though coffee was offered, no one dared take it. They all drank tea, a perfectly brewed Assam. Mrs. LaFleur presided with grace and poise.

Her manners were faultless. They discussed the weather, everyone agreeing that it was hot, and then came the questions about how Shelley and Mick had met.

Shelley’s eyes brimmed briefly with amusement as her gaze met Jan’s, then she gave an entirely sanitized account. Jan’s innards squeezed when she remembered the real story, jetting her thoughts straight to JP. Oh, if only it would be that easy for her, that . . .
destined.

Leading straight to the question: what would this wealthy, sophisticated woman say if she knew what her son and Jan had been doing earlier?
And I hope to more of, and longer, ASAP.

Jan hid a smile as Mrs. LaFleur signaled for the pastry tray to be wheeled around, and conversations broke into knots. Mrs. LaFleur asked Mrs. Willis about basketball, but after two or three questions, Jan began to suspect that Mrs. LaFleur knew even less about sports than Jan did.

Then Shelley said, “I wanted to ask when Jan will get a chance to practice her aria tomorrow.”

“My son has taken command of everything excepting the garden, which is my area of expertise. I am told that the musicians will arrive by four. Aria,” Mrs. LaFleur repeated belatedly, as if the sense of Shelley’s words had just caught up with her. And her expression changed from a polite mask to real interest. “My understanding was that Jan was to sing a popular tune.”

Shelley shook her head. “She can, but she is an opera singer.”

“You are an aficionada of the opera?”

Shelley shook her head. “Oh, I’ve gotten used to it, after listening to Jan, but I can’t say I’ve ever gone to see any on my own. But the one she’s singing for my wedding, from
Zaide
, it’s special to me.”

Mrs. Willis and her mother, and several other ladies, looked blank, and Jan felt obliged to say, “It’s an unfinished masterpiece from Mozart, about a slave-girl and an evil sultan. Um, slave-girls and evil sultans were kind of a thing at that time, like gladiator teenagers are now.”

“Oh-h-h-h,” went up in a collective note.

“I shall look forward to hearing your solo,” Mrs. LaFleur said, and for the first time Jan heard the note of truth in her politely modulated voice.

From there the talk went to the wedding, and stayed there until Mrs. LaFleur set down her cup with a distinctive
tink
that was a hair more noticeable than before. Mrs. Willis got to her feet, her mother, daughter, and the in-laws popping up like jack-in-the-boxes, Jan among them.

After polite thanks and glad-to-meet-yous, they were ushered out and piled into the cars with a great sense of relief. As the deal had been that the Willis moms would take the kids after the tea so the dads could go to Mick’s party, they all decided on an early night.

Once Shelley’s family had been unloaded at the motel, where Mrs. Willis retired to the sports channels and the grandmother to a nap, Shelley and Jan walked back down the street toward the Volkovs’.

Jan realized now that the general noise was over that Shelley had been uncharacteristically silent. “Is everything okay?” she asked.

“Sure,” Shelley said.

“I know it’s none of my business, but it doesn’t seem like you’re okay.”

Shelley grimaced down at the ground, then said, “Everything is great between Mick and me. It’s just, now that he’s here, he feels like he has to help with local stuff. And so he’s kind of tired.”

“Parking lot drama again?”

“Something like that.”

Jan heard that now-familiar note of restraint in Shelley’s voice, so she dropped it. After they reached the Volkovs’ and Jan accepted a cup of coffee she didn’t want, she said, “I think I’ll call it an early night, too. Rehearsal tomorrow. Want to save my voice.”

“I’ll walk you back,” Shelley said.

Jan had firmly resolved not to mention the shape-shifters she had seen. But she sensed that yet again Shelley was being pulled away from her, by secrets she was honor-bound to keep. Jan respected that. Mick’s business—especially small town politics—had nothing to do with Jan.

Yet she was losing the friend with whom she had shared so much, the plucky sidekick trotting off to her lonely life after the wedding bells for the hero and heroine.

Fuck that shit.

And so, once they’d gotten past the house, Jan slipped her fingers into her purse and pulled out the tissue containing the feather.

“Look what I found the other night,” she said, holding it up.

The feather gleamed pale in the moonlight. Shelley said, “It looks like a feather. A really big one,” she added, with that note of constraint in her voice.

So Jan nipped the feather between her fingers, and pulled hard. The golden glitter was nearly gone, but there was enough of it to sparkle dimly, causing Shelley’s breath to catch.

“What kind of feather do you think this is?” Jan asked. “It sure doesn’t belong to any bird I’ve ever heard of.”

Shelley took a few slow steps, then said in that constrained voice, “Can I tell you a story?”

“Sure,” Jan said, her heartbeat quickening.

“You understand this isn’t about anybody. Just a story,” Shelley mumbled. A short sigh, then: “Do you know what a phoenix is?”

Jan didn’t say,
That’s not a story
. Shelley had never been any good at telling stories—anymore than she was at lying. So Jan said only, “The bird in Greek myth, was it? Rises from the ashes?”

“In my story,” Shelley said firmly, “there are all kinds of dragons. Like Chihuahuas and wolf-hounds and bulldogs are all kinds of dogs. A phoenix is a smaller, lighter, very fast dragon. Like all dragons, it has fire, but it’s an inner fire, kind of like, oh, radiant heat. They don’t breathe it.”

“Oh-h-h-kay . . .”

“Phoenixes are really good for growing things, the earth, water, and so on. They radiate what you might call healing properties. In the story land, people want phoenixes to live among them. Crops will prosper. And like many story beings with two natures—human and bird or animal—phoenixes mate for life. When they find their true mate.”

Jan turned to stare at her friend, whose expression was shadowed in the darkness. Had Shelley put an emphasis on
true
, and why? That note of hidden meaning was definitely there.

And gone again as Shelley finished, “Anyway, they have golden feathers.”

Jan fingered her feather, then said, “In your story, do phoenixes have giant nests? Do they eat people?”

“No, and no. At least, in this story, they take human shape. They live as human, rising at certain times in their phoenix shape. They don’t eat people, and as for the nests, they don’t make those. They might have sanctuaries somewhere outdoors, above their hoard.”

“Hoard. You mean that stuff about dragon treasure is part of your story?”

“Well, precious metals in specific. Gold. Dragons are all about the precious metals. In this story.”

“Cool,” Jan said, wondering how much of that was true and how much myth.