Dragon Her Heels (with a body count #23)

Prologue “Misfortune comes to all who choose to live here.”

He’d built her a miniature palace. Interior renovations had resulted in twenty bedrooms, twenty-five bathrooms, numerous offices, several sitting rooms, a kitchen on every floor, and a wine cellar that somehow survived Florida without becoming a flooded, moldy disaster.

I had questions about the wine cellar, and the instant I had the deed in my hands, I would be exploring to learn more about the property.

Hints of the Spanish influences remained; the stable, barn, and guest house were Spanish Colonial in nature, as were the well house and several other auxiliary buildings nobody knew the purpose of.

I would be making good use of the stable and barn; I meant to get chickens, several cows, a few horses, and everything I needed to sustain myself even if the world around me went mad.

I’d ridden my first horse at age three, and I’d spent my luxury money on riding lessons to fill the void in my life.

From dressage to jumping to barrel racing, I’d done just about everything.

One discipline had eluded me, the one my heart longed to chase after witnessing horses thunder around a track, their manes and tails whipping.

At least one thoroughbred would be mine, and I’d take the opportunity to pursue my dreams before the realities of the world came crashing in again.

According to my calculations, after I paid the down payment, which was sufficient to eliminate the mortgage insurance, I could thrive for a few years without worrying about work.

In reality, I could pay for the property in cash. Depending on the situation, I might eliminate the mortgage altogether.

Being an executive secretary for a profitable company had helped with that, especially as I’d been wise enough to insist on a stock package and bonuses founded on stocks upon my hiring ten years prior.

At the ten year mark, my stock packages for my initial hire and the following six years had all vested.

I’d sold out, taken the money, and run from Fort Lauderdale the instant I could.

I’d spent the past three weeks in a nearby hotel, watching and waiting for the property to drop just a little lower before hiring my real estate agent.

I regretted the agent, but he was the best the area had to offer.

He’d done his best to convince me to purchase any other property but this one. It had taken offering an additional percentage to convince him to get me a viewing, which had involved a great deal of headache contacting the previous owner.

The previous owner, upon hearing a dragon had razed three cities in Georgia, had decided to flee to Europe where the demonic scaled harbinger of destruction wouldn’t be able to get him.

He’d listed the property for fifteen million dollars.

I’d believed that sum to be a bargain despite not being able to afford anywhere near that much.

Time had passed, and month by month, the price dropped, first to fourteen million, then to ten million, and then down to six million, all without a single nibble of interest.

I questioned the lack of interest, wondering what tidbit of knowledge I lacked.

As the price had sunk, my interest had grown.

Six million remained out of reach, but time had done its work and showered me with favor.

One year following the destruction in Georgia, the price had dropped to two million dollars.

I could have afforded the two million, but my frugal tendencies had gotten the better of me, and I’d settled in to wait.

Two months later, it had dropped to a bargain bin price of five hundred thousand.

Now, one year and four months later, with the owner asking for three hundred thousand, I meant to make the mansion mine, and I’d use my money to transform the home into a hermit’s dream.

Mr. Louis Haggart made a strangled noise in his throat. “Miss Culling, I can show you far better properties than this one.”

Could he? I peered over the wall separating the overgrown pastures flanking the edifice; like many Tudor manors and castles, it utilized an E-shaped foundation.

Originally, the building had been in more of a U shape, but the original owner had wanted a garage to safeguard his vehicles should a hurricane come calling.

It could hold six vehicles, and not even a category five would faze it.

The entire property featured a five foot wall to prevent floodwaters from destroying the grounds, including a barricade system designed to close off the entries; when set up and filled with water, it served as a blockade meant to divert floods.

Magic in the walls and gates also served to divert water as well.

In the property’s history, even through the toughest of storms, the roof had needed to be repaired once.

Magic also protected the windows, and before magic had returned to the world, shutters had done the job admirably. I expected a huge bill to fix the landscaping. While the previous owner had hired a company to keep the interior clean, the exterior had been permitted to run wild and free.

At least a hundred baby alligators roamed the grounds, and where there were babies, there were the monsters that could send a person to their grave.

I had no problems with wrangling gators if it meant having a place to call home without dealing with overbearing landlords, nosy neighbors, and noise.

My money would buy me the stuff of dreams, and I’d work daily to keep it from becoming a nightmare.

My mortgage would work out to be less than my rent in Fort Lauderdale, and I meant to spend the excess on enjoying life. Dyeing my hair and brows black to hide my blonde tendencies would be my first move, and once I’d mastered the gothic queen look, I’d give my wardrobe a makeover.

I focused on the placard mounted along the entry into the court, which flanked the opened gate. “Why does this say this used to be a plantation? It doesn’t look like a plantation.”

Heaving a sigh, my agent referred to his notes. “During the Civil War era, the property had been used as a plantation, providing goods for locals when supply lines had suffered. The property was deemed cursed, and it has maintained that reputation ever since.”

Interesting. “Cursed how?”

“Misfortune comes to all who choose to live here.”

I raised a brow at that. “The previous owner, last I heard, decided that the United States was too dangerous when we discovered we had a dragon. Losing three cities is a big deal, but I don’t see how the previous owner was cursed.”

“He owned numerous properties and businesses in Augusta.”

Ah. While I failed to understand the relation between the losses and the house, I could understand how someone might jump to that conclusion.

“Well, I’m not really the superstitious kind, and while I’m a bit of a hedge witch, I’m the kind who views magic as a tool.

I’m sorry about his business endeavors, though. I appreciate the warning.”

Mr. Haggart’s expression brightened. “You’re a hedge witch?”

Technically, I could use magic quite a bit better than the average hedge witch, but I tended to keep quiet about my abilities.

While neither a shapeshifter nor a lycanthrope, I’d learned the trick of redistributing my mass to take on other shapes, which came in useful when I needed to get places I couldn’t normally go.

Equivalent exchange ruled my life when taking on new forms, a complication I took care to respect.

As such, I didn’t change shapes often.

I offered him a smile. “It’s part of why I want this property.” I gestured to the overgrown land. “I’ve just enough skill to discourage weeds from growing, convince the pests to leave my crops alone, and keep my animals from roaming.” That part of my magic would make my life simple.

My chickens wouldn’t roam beyond the property line, predators would leave them alone, and I’d have plenty of eggs to offer to my neighbors in exchange for some goodwill.

Everything I’d learned online about the neighborhood indicated crime rates were low, the people were nice enough, and my new home had an entire grove along the lakefront, including pecan, apple, orange, grapefruit, lemon, peach, and cherry trees.

A little magic would spare my crops from disease, poor weather, and anything else that might do them harm. Some magic already existed within the grove, as the four types of apple growing there weren’t suitable for Florida and required chilling each year to thrive.

My statement changed my real estate agent’s tune, and he examined his information packet on the property with more enthusiasm than I’d seen out of him since I’d made it clear I wanted to see the place.

“There is a good grove here, and he was working on a berry field as well; he’d invested quite a bit in some practitioners making the land suitable for those ventures. The workings will expire in two years.”

“Let’s start with the grove and the berry field, then. I had known about the grove, but the berry field isn’t on the listing.”

“The berries aren’t producing yet, and most would view them as weeds,” my agent replied before stepping onto the cobbles leading to the house.

“According to my notes, the property is broken into several sections with a stone wall separating each section with the house as the primary entry point to the lake.” Mr. Haggart pointed at the barn side of the property.

“You can access the lakefront from this side as well. There are flood protections on all the walls, so should a bad hurricane come through, the entire grounds should be safe. The walls extend twenty feet down to a foundation below the cellar level.”

I whistled. “And this place was built in 1601?”

After flipping through his sheets, Mr. Haggart replied, “That’s correct. The lower foundation was added with magic fifty or so years ago. It extends directly to the bedrock, and the flood protections cover all surfaces.”

Well, I would be sleeping comfortably knowing my new home hadn’t been built on sand. “Outside of the curse, why shouldn’t I buy this property?”