Dragon's Obsession (West Coast Water Dragons Book 5) Read online

  ”Emerson,” Janet pointed out, tapping the screen with one manicured nail. “And it says he’s the local wildlife expert. It checks out. He’s your guy. Happy albatross hunting, babe.”

  Shelly stared at the screen as Janet sauntered off, feeling all but hypnotized by the face smiling out at her. Suddenly, this assignment didn’t seem all that dull.

  Chapter 2 – Emerson

  Emerson stretched in the mid-afternoon sun, taking a moment to enjoy the feeling of warmth on his skin and the pleasant burn in his muscles from a day spent doing manual labor. It had been a long time since he’d spent a day like this. The majority of the serious building work they’d needed to undertake to get the resort up and running had been completed years ago, so the era of long days of hard work was at an end. It was a different kind of hard work, running an eco-resort, and though Emerson enjoyed this new chapter in their lives, it was nice to return to the much more simple work of hauling construction materials around.

  ”Nearly done,” Harvey said brusquely. His friend was feeling the heat, too—even in spring, the weather was definitely on its way to the glorious summer warmth that northern California was known for. Add a bit of heavy lifting, and you had a recipe for sweat. Emerson grinned as Harvey bent forward, running his hands through his short chestnut hair and sending sweat flicking out over the grass before straightening up with a grunt and turning back towards the prodigious pile of rocks they were moving. “What are you grinning about?”

  ”You know what Vonnegut said,” Emerson said simply, spreading his hands. “Occasionally, you have to stop and say aloud to yourself—if this isn’t nice, well, what is?”

  ”Sounds like a guy who never built a pond by hand,” Harvey said irritably. “C’mon. I want to get the last of the rocks in so it can settle overnight.”

  ”Don’t sound too excited about it,” Emerson said, grinning as he followed his friend to the stack of rocks. They’d spent the morning digging a deep excavation in their shared back yard—the cottages they lived in were side by side, and though some of the other residents of the peninsula had put fences up around their yards, Emerson and Harvey had never seen the point. They spent so much of their time together anyway—it seemed silly to fence off their outdoor spaces. It was a very pleasant yard—big and spacious, with lots of native vegetation leading up to the tree line where the open area gave way to dense forest. But there was an empty space in the middle—and when Emerson had proposed they put a pond there, Harvey had been amenable.

  ”I’m excited,” the other man said now, glancing up at Emerson with a quick flash of a grin. “Excited for all this to be finished so I can go to bed.”

  ”This is what you shall do,” Emerson said, shooting a sidelong glance at Harvey as they positioned the stones at the edge of the pond that was taking shape. “Love the earth and sun and the animals—”

  ”That better not be poetry. I told you no poetry while we’re working.”

  ”One of these days, I’ll get you to read Whitman.”

  ”Why do I need to read it? We’ve known each other for a hundred years, Emerson. By this stage, I’ve probably heard his complete works in quotes from you.”

  ”That’s likely,” Emerson grinned, straightening up. “But it’s a beautiful day, and beautiful days are to be appreciated, poetry or no poetry.”

  ”It is,” Harvey relented, taking a moment to stand by the new pond and look towards the forest. Decades ago, when they and their little group had settled here on the peninsula, Harvey and Emerson had been challenged on building their cottages so close to the trees. The others had scrambled for homes closer to the beach—all of the others had backyards that gave way to sand and then the Pacific Ocean. But Emerson, as much as he loved the ocean, preferred the trees and the forest. For Harvey, the concern was more practical—the placement of his cottage was more about which windows he wanted the sun to peer through at which times. But for Emerson … well, he enjoyed being almost buried in the forest. There was such peace among the trees … and so much wildlife. And now, building a water feature like a pond in their backyard, he’d have all the more opportunity to encounter more wild creatures.

  He’d loved birds as long as he could remember. For the longest time, he’d thought it had something to do with his species—that all dragons felt the same affinity for the smaller, feathered friends. He’d always thought of birds as cousins. After all, what other creatures flew the way dragons did? But when he’d mentioned this fondness to his friends, he’d been met with blank stares. It seemed birdwatching was an Emerson quirk, not a universal fondness shared by dragon kind. Ah, well. He had no shortage of quirks—birdwatching was just one more to add to the list.

  His friends accepted his eccentricities, even loved him for them; he knew that much. They were like family, like brothers to him—Bryce, James, Daniel and Harvey. Lachlan had joined them later, but he was every bit as much a brother to him as the others. Still—he couldn’t help but feel his difference from his friends. His fondness for poetry, his deep and abiding interest in philosophy and abstraction, the deep and desperate love for nature that was more than capable of bringing him to tears … these weren’t things he often shared with his brothers. They were good men and dear to his heart, but there were some things they just didn’t understand. And he could only take so much good-natured ribbing about his eccentricities, for all that he put a brave face on it.

  Harvey was frowning at the horizon, his eyes far away. Emerson reached out to put a hand on his shoulder, feeling him jump. “Harvey? You seem distracted.”

  ”It’s fine.”

  ”I know that expression. Is something wrong?”

  Harvey sighed, the habitual tension in his body flaring to life. Emerson felt a momentary burst of smugness. He always could tell when his closest friend was hiding something. “Not wrong, exactly. Just concerned. We’ve had a big uptick in poachers since news started spreading about that damn bird.”

  ”Poachers? You’ve caught poachers?”

  ”Well, they don’t admit what they’re doing, but it’s pretty clear from the equipment they’ve brought with them. Drugged bait, nets, cages … I don’t have the authority to do anything but kick them off the peninsula for camping without a license, and the human cops don’t care much about birds, so there’s not a lot I can do about it.”

  Emerson frowned, distracted from the brief triumph of the pond by this somber news. The peninsula they lived on in northern California was an untouched and pristine piece of nature. Save for the settlement down at the very tip, the entirety of the peninsula—about eighty miles from the mainland to the end—was a piece of well-preserved natural history. There were plants and animals here that were incredibly rare anywhere else—creatures that had survived the industrialization of the rest of the country, creatures that had taken refuge in the trees. When Emerson and his adopted family had settled here, they’d sworn that they’d do their best to live in harmony with nature—to act as caretakers for the land, not as colonizers.

  And they’d done well. Well enough that their little community, once intended only as a safe haven for half a dozen dragons who were fleeing their enemies, was now thriving as an eco-friendly tourist resort. With Daniel working hard on publicity and Lachlan at the wheel as their business manager, they’d gone from an isolated settlement to a thriving little tourist community in the space of just a few years. And that wasn’t the only thing that had changed, Emerson thought with a smile. Over the last few years, four of his dear friends had met their soulmates. The peninsula was full of new life.

  It made Emerson feel a little out of place if he was honest. It didn’t feel like he had a role here anymore. Sure, he did what he could to teach their guests about the local wildlife, the unique nature of the peninsula … but there was something about his life now that hadn’t been there a few years ago. Something almost like loneliness. He felt it most acutely when he was around his friends and their soulmates—something bittersweet about watching the love t
hey had for each other. A kind of wistfulness ….

  “Emerson?”

  He shook himself, a little embarrassed by how quickly he’d disappeared into his own reflections. Harvey was grinning at him. “Where’d you go this time?”

  Harvey was all too familiar with the way Emerson’s mind wandered. “Oh, from poachers to our shared history to what my purpose is here. The usual.”

  ”Sounds about right.”

  ”Is there anything I can do about the poachers? I’d hate for them to disturb the albatrosses. They’re such fascinating birds. You know they mate for life?”

  ”Just like us.”

  ”Theoretically,” Emerson said, a smile quirking his lips upwards. He and Harvey were the only remaining bachelors on the peninsula. He couldn’t imagine his stoic friend falling in love … but then again, he’d felt the same about the others before he’d met their beautiful soulmates. Sometimes, love just came down out of the clear blue sky, it seemed. “Can I help you with patrolling or something? It’s been a while since I was in the air.”

  Harvey sighed. “It’s tempting. It’s a big peninsula to cover on foot—the air would be a lot easier. But if we’ve got poachers … well, we’ve got much bigger problems if they snap a photo of either of us in dragon shape, you know?”

  ”Very true.” Emerson frowned, feeling the sweat cooling on his skin. “At any rate—I’ll be out and about in the woods over the next few weeks.”

  ”Oh, yes? Another poetry-writing retreat?”

  ”I don’t write poetry; you know that. Only read it. And—no, not this time. I received an email from a wildlife publication that’s interested in doing a series about the albatross. One of the journalists there is an avid birdwatcher, we met on a forum—well, that’s not relevant. The long and the short of it is that there’ll be a reporter here, so I’ll be leading a wildlife expedition. It might go some way to dissuading the poachers.”

  ”You and your birdwatching buddies,” Harvey laughed. Emerson regretted telling his best friend about the forums he frequented. It had led to more mockery than he was strictly happy with.

  ”It’s not my birdwatching buddy who’s coming, actually. His first child is due next week.”

  ”Oh, the poor guy. Missing out on the albatross.”

  ”I know you’re being sarcastic,” Emerson said with dignity, “but he was indeed crushed.”

  ”So, they’re sending someone else?”

  ”It seems so. We’ve got a phone call scheduled later tonight, and I’ll be picking her up from the airport tomorrow.”

  Harvey raised an eyebrow. “Her.”

  ”Yes. Women can be reporters too, Harvey, it’s not the nineteenth century any more—”

  ”That’s not what I meant!” Harvey protested. “I just meant … I mean, look at the last few years. It feels like every time one of us meets a woman, boom. Soulmate.”

  ”That’s not true,” Emerson objected. “Dozens of women come to stay at the resort each week. I haven’t found myself falling in love with any of them.”

  ”I don’t know, dude. Watch out, that’s all I’m saying. Keep an eye on the dragon, you know?”

  ”Don’t be ridiculous,” Emerson scoffed. “We’re shifters; we’re not beasts. I’m capable of maintaining a professional relationship with a woman—”

  ”For a warrior-poet, you’re not very romantic,” Harvey said, rolling his eyes. “But I guess it’s good you’ll be out in the forest. For a few weeks, you said? Is she staying here?”

  ”The first night, yes. But we’ll be camping after that.”

  Harvey raised his eyebrows again, drawing a scowl from Emerson. “One tent or two?”

  ”Stop that,” Emerson said darkly.

  ”What’s her name, this vixen of yours?”

  ”Stop it!” Emerson dug his phone out of his pocket, needled despite his determination to ignore Harvey’s teasing. Why was it bothering him like this? Was it that the talk of finding a soulmate was striking a little too close to home? He’d been alone for so long, with just the company of his adopted brothers to keep him from complete solitude. The idea of meeting someone who fit into his heart like a missing puzzle piece … he scrolled through the email until he found a link to the profile of the journalist he’d been emailing. “If you must know, her name is Shelly Harris, and she’s a prize-winning photographer and journalist with a long and impressive career—”

  ”A writer?” Harvey was smirking like a Cheshire cat. “Sounds like fate, buddy, I’m just saying. What does she look like?”

  ”I don’t know.”

  ”You haven’t looked at her photo?” Harvey swiped his phone and started scrolling, ignoring his objections. “There’s always a photo—there! Not exactly a glamor shot, but—”

  ”Give that back,” Emerson said irritably, swiping the device. Sure enough, Harvey had found a photo. He blinked down at it. A woman stood knee-deep in what looked to be a swamp, her face and hands covered in mud. She was wearing heavy-duty outdoor clothes, all of which were also liberally splattered with mud, and a wide-brimmed hat was flattened onto her head. From it emerged a long braid of hair that might have been blonde under all the dirt. There was a camera around her neck—the only thing in the picture that wasn’t covered in mud. But what really caught his eye was her smile. It lit up her whole face—enormous, goofy, her light green eyes shining with whatever light was filling her up. He wasn’t quite sure how long he stared down at the phone in his hand, at the woman’s vibrant smile. The caption on the photo indicated that it had been taken during a project in the depths of South America. Where was all that joy coming from?

  ”She must love mud,” Harvey shrugged, looking over his shoulder. “Seems like a good match for you. Maybe she’ll have some insight into what to do about the bird poachers.”

  ”It says her favorite animals are bears,” Emerson said, scrolling through the woman’s bio.

  ”Oof. Bad taste.”

  ”I’ve known plenty of perfectly admirable bears,” Emerson said darkly, glancing up at Harvey. It was no secret that Harvey had had a series of run-ins with bear shifters. The species as a whole had a troublesome reputation for being violent and impulsive … an unpleasant stereotype, but one that had unfortunately been confirmed by much of Harvey’s experience. “Besides, she’s a human. She’s talking about the wild cousins.”

  “Well, so long as she doesn’t see fit to bring any with her,” Harvey grumbled. “That’s the last thing we need, what with the voodoo rumors.”

  Emerson nodded. “I’ve been looking into that. I have a strong suspicion that the suspicions of magical abilities are what led to the albatrosses almost going extinct in the first place. I suppose Shelly might be interested in that side of things for her article.”

  ”Careful what you tell her,” Harvey said sharply, that tension that was never far from his face creeping back into his eyes. “It’s shifter magic that the birds are supposed to be useful for. Make sure you frame it as—silly human superstition, nothing more.”

  “I will,” Emerson nodded. There was always a kind of tension when it came to interacting with humans. With precious few exceptions (many of whom were living on the peninsula with them), most humans didn’t know how many shifters lived amongst them. The ability to shift from their wild shapes into passable human disguises had kept shifters of all species—bears, wolves, dragons and more—from discovery for centuries. With the advent of technology—especially cell phone cameras—it was harder and harder to keep that secret … and all the more important to do what they could. Though shifters of various species often had their disputes, they were united by the universal need for secrecy.

  Still, it was a little lonely, Emerson thought, fighting the urge to scroll back through the article to look at Shelly’s picture again. Being a dragon … it was a huge part of who he was. Only being able to share that with other shifters—and the small handful of humans who were in on the secret—well, it was like not being able to share his true se
lf with the world. Was that why he hadn’t met his soulmate, yet? Plenty of people came through the peninsula each week, now, with their blossoming business—it wasn’t as though he hadn’t had ample opportunity to find his mate. Was his isolation keeping love at bay? Or had fate simply not yet decided it was time for him to fall in love?

  He shook himself, trying not to disappear down that particular path. That was the kind of thing that would keep him up all night. For now, he’d focus on the work at hand—on helping this photographer learn about the rare albatross that was nesting on their peninsula and hopefully scaring off a few poachers in the process.

  They spent the rest of the afternoon working on the pond before Emerson had to head home to make the phone call to Shelly. And if he was looking forward to hearing her voice, well, it was just that he was excited about sharing his beautiful home with an outsider. It had nothing to do with the photo … with that brilliant, goofy smile that had struck him …

  Chapter 3 - Shelly

  Shelly was already getting anxious about the impending phone call when she left work. She’d emailed the Emerson guy back and forth a few times at work while she was getting her trip organized—he seemed like a reasonable guy, though his written voice was incredibly specific and grammatically correct. Was he allergic to contractions, or something? She’d signed her first email with a friendly ‘Cheers—Shelly’, only to receive an overwrought missive with the signoff ‘Kindest Salutations—Emerson’. How were you meant to respond to that?

  ”Stop overthinking it, idiot,” she murmured under her breath as she got into her car, squinting a little in the gloom of the underground parking lot. Her car—that was going to be a concern. Would it be safe to leave it sitting outside her house for a month while she was away? She usually got someone from work to come by and check on her house when she went on trips, but with the chaos and short-term planning of this trip, she hadn’t had a chance to ask anyone. Text Janet, she thought to herself, trying to add it to her mental to-do list. Text Janet to ask her to check on the house. Maybe water whatever plants had survived her last trip away … for a wildlife photographer, she was certainly not very good at keeping plants alive. It was why she didn’t have any pets … too hard to get someone to look after them when she had to travel for work. It would have been easier if she’d had any friends or family, of course … or a husband, but that was a foreign concept entirely.