Chapter Five #2
It was insane, beyond insane. It was the kind of thing that happened in his novels, where powerful immortals courted oblivious humans with riches and jewels because they didn’t understand modern currency.
Sam laughed, but it came out slightly panicked.
“Right. So. Someone’s either playing an extremely elaborate prank, or I’m being courted by a dragon who doesn’t realize I can’t just deposit gold bullion at my bank without raising every red flag the Financial Conduct Authority has.”
He set the bar down carefully, half-expecting it to vanish like a hallucination, but it didn’t. It sat there on his kitchen table, next to a mug with his name on it and a cashmere jumper he couldn’t afford, gleaming in the light streaming through his window.
“Okay.” Sam pressed his palms flat against the table. “Okay. This is...I need to...”
What? Call the police? And what would he say? “Someone’s leaving me expensive presents, and I’d like them to stop?” Except Sam wasn’t sure he wanted them to stop, which was its own kind of concerning.
Because whoever was doing this knew where he lived. They knew his schedule well enough to deliver things while he worked, knew his size, his interests, and his name. But Sam had no idea who they were.
He picked up his phone, pulled up his conversation with Emma, then stopped.
If he told her about the gold, she’d lose her mind.
She’d probably call the police herself. Or demand Sam stake out his porch.
Or worse - she’d insist that single bar proved it was true love, destiny, or fate, because she was as much of a romantic as he was.
Sam set his phone down and picked up the gold bar again. It felt very real, but at the same time, it felt impossible.
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
/~/~/~/~/
I do hope Pat can help. Sam pushed through the door of Pat’s Pub at half-six, a canvas backpack slung over his shoulder.
The pub hummed with its usual weekend crowd - locals nursing pints, the smell of Cherry’s locally famous chicken wings drifting from the kitchen. Pat looked up from behind the bar, took one look at Sam’s face, and jerked his chin toward the back corner booth.
“You look like you need something stronger than coffee.”
“I need advice.” Sam slid into the booth. “Weird advice.”
Pat ambled over, wiping his hands on a bar towel. “How weird?”
Sam pulled the wooden box from his backpack and set it on the table. Then the cashmere jumper, still in its tissue paper.
Pat opened the box and froze. “Where’d you get this?”
“My doorstep.” Sam’s voice came out flat. “Monday was coffee beans. Tuesday, books. Wednesday, chocolate. Thursday, a mug. Friday, the jumper. Today, that.”
Pat picked up the gold bar, turned it over, and squinted at the markings. His expression shifted through several stages - confusion, disbelief, and something that looked almost like alarm.
“Sam.” He set the bar down carefully. “Son. These are real, very real.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
“I mean it.” Pat tapped the purity stamp.
“This isn’t costume jewelry or chocolate wrapped in foil.
This is actual gold bullion with the proper hallmarks, serial number, and the works.
” He turned to the jumper, checked the label, and made a low whistle.
“And this is Johnstons of Elgin. Three hundred dollars if it’s a cent. ”
Sam’s stomach dropped. “Three hundred…”
“The gold bar?” Pat’s voice dropped. “Twenty thousand dollars. Maybe more, depending on the market.”
Sam’s hands went numb around the wooden box. Twenty thousand dollars? For him? Someone had looked at ordinary Sam Brown - the guy who burned pasta and wrote stories nobody would read - and thought he was worth twenty thousand dollars.
The practical part of his brain screamed scam, money laundering, or some elaborate con. But underneath that, quieter and more dangerous, was the voice that sounded like his mother - You deserve good things, love. Stop waiting for permission to accept them.
She’d been wrong, though. Sam had proved that in the two years since she’d died, watching his small life stay small, watching potential dates lose interest, watching himself fade into the comfortable background of other people’s stories.
He didn’t deserve any of what he’d been given, which meant someone had made a terrible, and very expensive mistake.
The pub noise faded to a distant buzz. Sam stared at the items on the table - innocent-looking things that apparently cost more than his car. More than several of his cars, if he had more than one.
“I don’t understand,” Sam whispered. “Who leaves gold bars on someone’s doorstep?”
“Someone who’s got money to burn.” Pat leaned back, arms crossed. “Or someone who doesn’t know what money means anymore.” He paused. “You report this to anyone?”
“Like who? The police?” Sam picked up the box and closed it. “What would I even say? Someone’s leaving me presents, and I want them arrested?”
“Might not be the worst idea.”
“What if someone lost these? What if they need them back and I’ve just - I don’t know, kept them like some kind of thief?”
Pat’s expression suggested he thought that was unlikely. “Sam. People who can afford to give away twenty-thousand-dollar gifts don’t lose them by accident.” He pulled the bar towel through his hands. “Either someone very wealthy is interested in you, or something strange is going on. Maybe both.”
“Strange how?”
“I don’t know, but you be careful, yeah?
Lock your doors. Pay attention when you’re walking home.
” Pat’s face softened slightly. “It could be harmless. It could be someone who fancies you and doesn’t know how normal people talk to each other these days.
Although gold bars on doorsteps aren’t normal. ”
Sam packed everything back into his backpack, his hands not quite steady. Pat was right in that nothing about it was normal, but Sam’s bigger concern was that nothing about the gift-giving made sense.
He left the pub as full dark settled over Dinetell, backpack heavy against his shoulders. The walk home took fifteen minutes through quiet streets, past the boutiques on Ashford Lane, past the library with its warm lights.
He didn’t notice the Range Rover parked three houses down from his cottage, didn’t see the three figures inside, watching his front door with luminous eyes that tracked his every movement.
He definitely didn’t hear Rux’s quiet voice: “He kept them. That’s good, right?”
Or Mabon’s uncertain reply: “I think so?”
Or Urien’s low rumble: “He didn’t smile.”