The Lady Prefers Dragons Read online

  The Lady Prefers Dragons

  Katalina Leon

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  The Lady Prefers Dragons (Wish Stones book 2, #2)

  Author’s Note:

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  Author Bio

  The Lady Prefers Dragons © copyright December 2017 Katalina Leon

  Author Katalina Leon

  ISBN 978-0-9981620-1-0

  Cover Art, Jack Atkins

  Editing Hot Tree, Becky Johnson

  Content editor Liv Ventura

  Copy proof Kristin Scearce

  Copyright notice: All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Published by Red Jaguar Press

  The Lady Prefers Dragons

  Wish Stones book 2

  Doesn’t every girl dream of having two protective dragons of her own?

  IN AN ODD WICCAN SHOP in Salem, Devon pulls an unusual stone from a witch’s wish bag. Little does she know her wildest dreams of adventure and a torrid affair with two gorgeous coworkers are about to come true—in spades.

  Devon’s hunky boss, Jace, offers her the assignment of a lifetime, a photo safari to Mount Kilimanjaro. The African scenery is stunning but the unexpected arrival of her two office crushes, Jace and Beau, really ignites her passion. But just as things are getting steamy, danger strikes. Militant dragon hunters set a trap, and the guys are forced to take dragon form and abduct Devon to their mountain liar on Kilimanjaro. There she discovers the truth about the origins of the Marduko dragons. The possibility of becoming a life-mated trio is raised, but the risks are high. The guys are withholding a life-or-death secret that will push Devon’s courageous heart and commitment to the limits.

  Contains M/M and M/F/M ménage.

  Author’s Note:

  The Lady Prefers Dragons was previously published. This version of the book has been greatly revised, reedited, and expanded.

  This is Devon’s story and picks up where we left her in the Silver Moon Scrying Shoppe at the beginning of The Strix. For maximum reading enjoyment, please read at least the first chapter of The Strix. Wording in Devon’s POV is slightly different.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to a very talented and generous author, Amber Skyze. This version of The Lady Prefers Dragons is based on ideas originally written by her in 2011. With Amber’s permission, the story has gone through two major revisions and expansions, and none of it would exist were it not for the brilliant Amber Skyze. Thank you, Amber, for being such a lovely friend.

  Chapter 1

  Salem, Massachusetts, November 2, All Souls Day

  Witches, ghosts, and things that go bump in the night. Devon had been hearing about them all day, but enough was an enough and it was getting annoying.

  The tour shuttle slowed as they drove past a foreboding slate-gray Federation era home. An overly cheerful and apple-cheeked tour guide gestured to her right. “On our right is the infamous House of the Seven Gables...”

  Devon had already seen it earlier during a walking portion of the Salem witch tour. She glanced down at her phone. There was a message from her mother, Annie.

  She texted Annie back. With Arcona.

  Your college roommate? How is she coping postdivorce?

  Girlfriend is having a bad day. Need to cheer her up. We’re doing the Salem witch tour.

  Annie was quick to respond. Witch tour? That won’t cheer her up!

  Arcona’s funny. Lately, she seems obsessed with witchcraft.

  Tell her to lighten up. Bring her 2 dinner. Made garlic black beans and pulled pork.

  Devon typed like a fiend. Yum! Just me. Arcona has a red-eye 2 LA. Can’t stay.

  Annie’s reply came at lightning speed. Feeling selfish. I want our last night together to be just us. Love U Devi.

  Bye. She shut her phone off and slipped it into her pocket.

  Despite the dry, heated air on the shuttle, the tour guide was swaddled in a quilted red coat. “...Another interesting fact is the house is the oldest surviving wooden mansion in New England, and the birthplace of novelist Nathaniel Hawthorne. I’ll bet most of you read The Scarlet Letter in high school.” Her eyes gleamed as she paused to glance around the bus with a broad, comical grin. “Do we have any adulterers with us today? Let’s see a show of hands.” She laughed at her own stale joke. “We always ask on this tour! Sometimes we get a confession and we just slap a red letter on their chest, walk ’em over to the stocks and lock ’em up. I just wish I could have done that to my ex.” She made a rude sputtering noise with her lips. “Shame on you, Fred.”

  A wave of polite laughter traveled the length of the bus.

  Arcona looked at Devon and offered a weak smile. “My ex, Mario, was a cheater. I should have locked him in the stocks.” A joyless chuckle broke free. “He deserved a little public humiliation, but I’m the one who got it instead.”

  Knowing how hard the past two years had been on Arcona’s sanity and self-esteem, she couldn’t bring herself to laugh.

  A moment passed. Arcona looked concerned. “You’re bored, aren’t you?”

  “Not completely,” Devon quickly denied. “I’m happy to see you.” Any chance to see her BFF from her Amherst days was a golden opportunity. She just wished they’d spent the day doing something more fun, or catching up between themselves. They talked forever on the phone, but it wasn’t the same as splitting a bottle of wine and a big Caesar salad in some cute little café and laughing their asses off like they used to. They couldn’t freely talk during the tour and risk being rude, and she knew Arcona needed to talk. For almost a year, obligations and multiple life crises in general had prevented her from seeing Arcona face-to-face. What a drag that they’d spent their single afternoon together, where they both happened to be on the East Coast at the same time, doing this witchy fright tour.

  The place where they’d started came into view. The shuttle came to a stop, and a dozen tourists poured out at the same point they had gotten on, in front of the Salem Witch Museum.

  Devon sat on the edge of her seat and gathered her coat and belongings. She glanced at Arcona. “It was a lot for one day, but interesting. I even got to hear a little about my ancestor, Tituba. I enjoyed that.” It was true, but damn, poor Arcona looked as pale as a bowl of oatmeal, and wrecked, as if she were twenty-three hours into a twenty-four-hour flu bug. “Did you enjoy the tour? Any of it?”

  A gusty breeze blew through the shuttle’s door and lef
t Arcona’s auburn hair fluttering around her face like a wild halo. “I’m not sure.”

  Arcona didn’t look very happy. Not good. What was that about? They rose and were the last to exit the shuttle, right behind an eccentric-looking older lady who wore a flowing purple skirt and had pentagrams tattooed on her wrists.

  The affable tour guide greeted everyone as they got off the shuttle. “Thank you for taking the tour today.” She shook hands with each disembarking customer. “My name’s Witch Melissa. I hope you had a good time and learned a little something new about the Salem witch trials of 1692. Don’t forget to give the Eye of Newt tour company a high rating on Yelp. Be forewarned that if you give us any rating below two stars, I’ll have no choice but to cast a retaliation hex.” She waited for everyone to laugh. “Just kidding. No hexes, but I might hunt you down and wither your crops.”

  Devon laughed.

  Arcona didn’t.

  As they stepped onto the curb, Arcona looked glassy-eyed. Clearly, she was struggling with something internally. Devon wished her friend, who had once been like a sister to her, would just come out and say what was bothering her. She took Arcona’s hand. “How are you holding up?”

  Arcona’s lips drew taut; she appeared miserable. “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine.” Arcona looked shaken to the core. “I meant in general.”

  The Salem Witch Museum loomed tall like a gothic castle from a dark fairy tale. In the fading light of a short autumn day, the brownstone turrets lent the imposing structure an enchanting gingerbread quality.

  Devon slicked her palm through her windblown head of wavy dark hair and pointed to the front door. “The museum’s still open. Shall we take one more peek before they close?”

  A cutting breeze off the harbor left Arcona shivering and clutching her lightweight trench coat closer. “Haven’t we seen enough witch persecutions for one day? Those images are already seared into my brain and sure to give me nightmares for weeks.”

  “What?” Devon’s jaw dropped. Arcona sounded like a martyr. No one had asked her to do this. Hell, the whole let’s take the witch tour was Arcona’s idea in the first place. She never would have agreed to it if she’d known it would cause resentment. “You’re not enjoying this? Why did we spend all afternoon doing the deluxe witch tour? We walked or drove past the scene of every horrific moment in New England’s history. I did this because I thought you were fascinated with witchcraft?”

  “No!” Arcona laughed uneasily. “I have a phobia of witchcraft, not a fascination. You’re the one who loves anything spooky. Not me.”

  “Holy crap!” Devon giggled. “I did the tour for you.” What the hell was this about? She took her camera from the pocket of her parka, aimed it upward, and clicked photos of the museum’s elegant window encased in gothic iron filigree and lit an ominous shade of crimson. “I would have said something but I thought the side trip to Salem was part of your historical research.”

  A troubled expression crossed Arcona’s face. “This was research....” She stalled. “Sort of. But a little goes a long way. It’s time for me to tap out.”

  At Amherst, they’d shared a dorm room. Two unmoneyed West Coast girls as out of place in the red-brick college as a pair of pink flamingos in the Arctic Circle. They’d naturally been drawn to each other. Over the past dozen years they’d always been there for each other, if only as a sympathetic voice on the other side of a phone conversation. Hell, Arcona’s divorce had felt like her own. Lately, life had been rough for both of them. Now that they lived in separate cities, the opportunity to hang out together was rare. Had they just wasted their only full day together looking at wax mannequins of witches?

  Arcona looked distressed but remained stoic.

  Something was really wrong. Why hadn’t she clued into this earlier? “Okay. I think I get it. This is like the time you bolted out of Professor Morris’s lecture on Joan of Arc after he went into lurid detail about burning a girl at the stake. I remember, you ran into the hallway and threw up.”

  “Yep.” Patting her belly, Arcona groaned. “I’m feeling the same way now.”

  “Seriously?” Devon blinked in disbelief. This was so Arcona. Suffer in silence, say nothing, and then surprise everyone by throwing up. She was a true martyr. “So, why torment yourself? We could have gone shopping.”

  “I couldn’t be this close to Salem and not steal a peek.” Shaking her head, Arcona stared at her boots. “I’d like to be free of my fear of witchcraft. It’s so irrational.” She laughed, but sounded nervous.

  Devon nodded. She had a few irrational fears too. Commitments in any form terrified her, making commitments to career direction, décor choices—hell she had never even gotten to the bottom of a perfume bottle without changing her mind about it. The same went double for men. Now that she was over thirty, a nasty little pile of needlessly broken commitments had started to mount in the back of her conscience. A few terrific men had entered her life and offered their hearts, but her own insecurities and doubts always chased them away. New relationships shot out of the gate hot and heavy, but the moment the man got serious and the least bit possessive, it all went to shit and she couldn’t cut him loose fast enough. Maybe being a one-man woman just wasn’t in the cards for her?

  Sliding her foot forward, Devon tapped the toe of Arcona’s boot with hers, the same way they would silently signal each other during a dull lecture.

  Arcona nudged Devon’s boot with hers, and smiled.

  In so many ways they were still sisters. It was good to know a few of their little rituals had not changed. So much had. The past year had been especially tough. Arcona had gone through a painful divorce, which simply had to be done. She’d never had the heart to tell Arcona that one night when she’d had the newly married couple over for dinner at her place, Arcona’s ex-husband, Mario, had groped her under the table. That was just who he was, a cheater with no intention of changing his ways. Saying something about the uncomfortable incident had proved unnecessary, because Mario soon got caught doing the same thing to someone else, and then another. Poor Arcona.

  Poor her. Her mother, Annie, had to be nursed through a seriously dicey breast cancer scare. As an only child, she faced it alone. Dating and commitment to others had taken a back seat. Now was the time to reconnect with the world and get her life on track. “I’m flattered you picked me to join you for today’s weird little adventure. Who else would ask me to help them face their fears?”

  “There’s no one I would rather spend the day with.”

  “But that could change!” Devon laughed. “Hopefully our love lives will be revived, and soon we’ll both have something spicy to brag about.”

  Arcona shivered so hard, she was almost dancing in place. She squeezed Devon’s hand. “Promise you’ll visit me in Los Angeles. I have a guest bed.”

  “Or you could visit me in the Bay Area. Fair warning. I have an apartment the size of most people’s entryways, but I’ve got a comfortable couch. I can’t believe we both live in the same state but have to visit Massachusetts to see each other.”

  Devon steered Arcona toward a large wooden sign. “Let’s get a picture of us in front of the museum and celebrate the day. The past months have been challenging, but we’re both going to be okay.”

  Arcona paused to stare at a gray, featureless sky. “Do we have time to get an early dinner or a glass of wine?”

  Devon glanced at her phone. “I promised my mother I’d have dinner with her. Join us if you like.” She wished her mom would return to the Bay Area. It was so hard commuting between coasts. But she was racking up plenty of frequent flyer miles.

  Arcona appeared hopeful. “How about a glass of wine?”

  “Why not?”

  She squeezed Arcona’s hand. “I love our long phone calls but we need to get together in person more often.”

  They turned the corner and walked along a row of shops geared toward tourists. They stopped in front of an engaging storefront with a large si
gn that read Silver Moon Scrying Shoppe, painted in purple letters.

  Arcona pointed to an ornate tableau in the shop window and shuddered. “Uh, look at that.”

  Someone had meticulously carved and painted a horrific miniature scene of a woman standing on a ladder with a noose around her neck. Blindfolded, the mannequin’s hands were bound in chains, and her flowing petticoats secured around her ankles. She was about to be pushed by a somber man in a black frock coat.

  “This shit really bothers me,” Arcona mumbled. “I know it was all in the past but those poor women. It’s so ugly.”

  Something colorful caught Devon’s attention. She gestured toward a stunning African mask of what appeared to be a dragon. Every millimeter of the mask’s surface was covered in thousands of tiny rainbow-hued beads and iron nails, each carefully placed. “Wow, look at that! I love it. If I could afford it, I’d buy it in a second and mount it above my bed.”

  Arcona ignored her comment and peered at the window display through cupped hands. “Witches being dunked, witches in the stocks.... This place is a house of horrors.”

  “Oh look.” Devon pointed out an authentic-looking blade with a bronze hilt. “Something for you. Isn’t that big dagger the sort of thing you identify and catalogue every day?”

  “Yep.” Arcona’s gazed fixed on the blade. “That’s not a dagger. It’s a gladius hispaniensis, or Spanish short sword, the kind the Roman legions carried and gladiators fought with in the arena. Easy to wield at close quarters, the steel blade was lethal and dependable. Unlike barbarian iron or bronze, Roman steel didn’t shatter in battle. That simple weapon was the deciding factor between who conquered an empire and who bled into the earth. I can’t tell behind glass, but that looks genuine, or else it’s a fabulous reproduction.”

  “It’s genuine.” A middle-aged lady with wavy silver hair and brilliant blue eyes poked her head outside the shop door. “I was closing shop for the day, but you’re welcome to come inside.”