Page 23 of Dragon’s Rogue

She was tall and lithe, moving with the grace of an athlete. Her dark curly hair looked like she habitually ran her fingers through it, and her ripped jeans and faded ‘Keep Portland Weird’ t-shirt said she didn’t give much thought to how she looked. She got into the beat-up Pontiac and drove off, not paying any attention to Blaze sitting in her car.

The damn thief lived with a woman. And he was going around kissing people and planting sex fantasies in their heads…

The pendulum in Blaze’s hand swung toward the receding vehicle, pulling hard.

Damn. That woman had the idol.

Blaze forgot about sex fantasies and hot masked thieves. She started the car, pulled a u-turn and went after the woman.

The pendulum led Blaze to the main street of St. Johns. It was lined with small mom-and-pop stores, nothing fancy, looking like they catered mostly to locals.

She spotted the Pontiac parked in front of a coffee shop, and parked a few spaces down. The pendulum was still pulling hard. Not toward the coffee shop, though.

Towards a tiny shop sandwiched between it and a TV repair shop. The Dragon’s Lair.

Blaze sat, staring at the shop, stifling the urge to groan. It was a wannabe witch’s shop, the front display window crammed with crystals, sage bundles, Tarot cards and crescent moon suncatchers.

And dragons. Fantasy dragons of all shapes, sizes and colors—some perched on faux mountains guarding faux treasure; some communing with cutesy fairies or unicorns; some wrapped around swords featured in various TV and movie franchises.

Blaze climbed out of the car and walked over to the window, pretending to study the display. The pendulum was concealed in her hand, the chain wrapped around her fingers so that it hung down barely an inch.

So. What was a woman carrying an ancient, deadly, solid-gold magical artifact doing in a cheap souvenir shop? Could it possibly be a front for dark sorcery?

She gazed at a statue of a goofy pink dragon baby popping its head out of its half-broken egg. Blaze couldn’t imagine any self-respecting dark sorcerer she’d ever met working out of a place like this.

Nonetheless, according to the pendulum, the woman and the idol were inside.

Blaze took a deep breath and walked into the shop.

The inside was as crowded as the window. Quartz crystals and inexpensive tumbled stones. Sparkly-winged fairies and ceramic unicorns. Books on past lives and astrology and Tarot cards and how to tell if your loved one is a vampire.

And dragons everywhere. Posters and tapestries and carved wooden plaques. Greeting cards and figurines and necklaces and bracelets. Even original paintings on the back wall—dragons with wizards; dragons with armor-clad maidens. Dragons fighting in the air over an erupting volcano.

In the corner stood a tall vase with gnarled handmade walking staffs, each topped with a fake dragon claw and a crystal sphere. From the ceiling dangled leaded stained glass and shiny stars, and painted dragons hanging from invisible threads.

There was so much glittery stuff assaulting her eyes that Blaze had a hard time finding the person behind the counter. Probably because her purple dragon-adorned caftan made her blend into the surroundings.

Her frizzy brown hair was held back on the sides with dragon-shaped clips, and there was even a tiny dragon painted on her face.

Yikes, Blaze thought. Obsessed much?

The woman looked up and said, “Good morning. Welcome to the Dragon’s Lair. Feel free to—”

She broke off and stared at Blaze, eyes wide, mouth dropping open slightly. Her hands began to twist nervously, and Blaze could see her breathing increase, almost as if she were about to hyperventilate.

Could this woman have something to do with the burglary? Did she somehow recognize Blaze, despite the glamour?

“Tempest?” Another voice came from behind the counter, out of sight. Blaze stepped forward and saw the woman from Maple Street sitting in a folding chair, leaning back with her feet braced on the edge of the counter, a magazine in her lap.

Now she let the front legs of the chair down with a thump. “Tempe?” The shop clerk didn’t answer. Instead she snatched up a pen and flipped open a notebook lying on the counter, scribbling madly.

The woman from Maple Street rose slowly to her feet, impaling Blaze with her gaze. Blaze felt… something… shiver down her spine. Power?

No. This woman was definitely not a trained witch. But there was still something…

“Feel free to look around,” was all the woman said. She sat back down in her chair, touching the other woman’s arm briefly, as if in comfort or support. The dragon-lover—Tempest—was still writing frantically in her notebook, ignoring both of them.

Something was not right there. But the dragon-obsessed wacko was not her problem. Her friend was.