Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sam
Saturday morning found three dragons in their human form crouched in Sam’s tiny living room, offerings spread across the coffee table like tributes to a visiting dignitary.
“This is humiliating,” Urien muttered, dangling a feather toy six inches from Basil’s nose. The cat sat on the bookshelf, tail swishing, and his eyes narrowed to judgmental slits.
“A twenty-pound tabby shouldn’t be our greatest challenge.” Rux produced a bag of salmon treats, shaking it hopefully. “We’re the apex predators in this room, not him.”
Basil yawned, displaying impressive fangs.
“He knows what you are,” Sam said from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed but smiling. “He just doesn’t care.”
They’d been at it for an hour. Mabon had arrived first, armed with research on feline behavior and organic catnip.
Urien brought hand-carved wooden toys he’d spent three days making.
Rux showed up with every treat variety available in town, as well as some imported versions, because that’s what he did.
Basil had rejected everything.
“Try the silvervine,” Sam suggested. “It’s in the back left pocket of your bag.”
Rux dug through his offerings, producing a small pouch. The moment he opened it, Basil’s ears pricked forward.
“Now we’re talking.” Rux sprinkled silvervine on the carpet.
Basil descended from his throne with regal slowness, sniffed the offering, then looked directly at Rux with unmistakable disdain before walking away.
“I’ve never been judged so thoroughly by something I could swallow in one bite,” Rux said flatly as he slumped back against the end of the couch.
“Don’t you dare.” Sam pointed at him. “That’s my baby.”
“Your baby tried to remove my spleen.”
“You stalked his human from the bushes. He had valid concerns.”
Urien’s feather toy twitched across the floor, skating past Basil’s paws. The cat watched it pass, unimpressed. But then, just as Urien started to lower the toy, Basil pounced - pinning it under both paws with the efficiency of a trained assassin.
“Progress!” Sam clapped.
“He’s murdering my peace offering,” Urien observed, but he was smiling.
Basil eviscerated the feather toy with his back claws, growling softly.
“That’s how he shows affection,” Sam lied, coming to sit beside Mabon on the sofa, and Mabon immediately took Sam’s hand in his own. Sam was getting used to the affection.
“He hasn’t drawn blood today,” Mabon pointed out. “That’s an improvement.”
“I don’t know about that. He glared at me for twenty minutes without blinking.” Rux sat cross-legged on the floor, holding up another treat. “That’s psychological warfare.”
Basil finished destroying Urien’s toy, then - miracle of miracles - padded over to Rux, stopping three feet away before he sat down.
“Don’t move,” Sam whispered.
Rux froze, treat extended. Basil stared at the salmon morsel and then stared at Rux. He was clearly performing complex calculations behind those green eyes.
The treat won. Basil reached out one paw, batted the treat onto the floor, and ate it – still maintaining unblinking eye contact.
“I think that’s approval?” Mabon sounded uncertain.
“He ate it.” Urien shifted closer, moving with glacial slowness. “That’s practically a declaration of love.”
“He’s still plotting murder,” Rux said. “I can see it in his face.”
“But he’s not actively committing murder.” Sam squeezed Mabon’s hand. “See? Progress.”
Basil finished the treat, licked his whiskers, then stalked over to Urien, sniffing his offered hand. He permitted exactly three seconds of chin scratching before retreating to the bookshelf.
“He’ll come around,” Sam promised, watching his cat settle into a loaf position. “He’s just protective.”
“Brilliant, we’ve been officially tolerated,” Mabon announced. “This calls for celebration.”
“I made scones,” Rux said immediately. “Only two dozen this time.”
Sam laughed as Mabon pulled him closer, Urien grinned, and Basil watched them all from his perch with the air of a king surveying questionable subjects.
Positive progress.
/~/~/~/~/
One of the things Sam enjoyed most about his dragons was their willingness to answer his questions.
“So, when you say ‘hoard,’ you mean actual piles of gold coins and pearls?” Sam speared a roasted potato, watching Rux serve himself a third helping of chicken. “Like, Smaug-style mountains of gold?”
“Smaug was a fictional disgrace to our species,” Mabon said immediately. “No self-respecting dragon sleeps directly on coins. That’s terrible for the scales.”
“Speak for yourself.” Urien reached for the green beans. “I knew a dragon in Cork who built a nest entirely from Spanish doubloons. He claimed it was therapeutic.”
“Did his spine survive?” Mabon sounded skeptical.
“No, actually. He was suffering from chronic inflammation by 1820.”
Sam laughed, feeling so much more relaxed at the estate.
There was a normal amount of food on the table, and he was invited to serve himself a reasonable portion, instead of having someone fill his plate.
Better still, Mabon, Urien, and Rux were all eating too, which made the atmosphere more comfortable for Sam.
“But you collect other things.” Sam gestured with his fork toward Mabon. “You said books and art?”
“Yes, first editions, mostly, or older manuscripts, some of which I bought when they were new. A Gutenberg Bible, for example, that I acquired in 1523.” Mabon’s eyes lit up the way they always did when discussing his collection. “I have an entire climate-controlled vault beneath the library.”
“Doesn’t everybody?” Sam said in a teasing tone.
“Rux hoards recipes,” Urien added, grinning. “He has handwritten notebooks dating back to the 1700s.”
“They’re culinary history,” Rux protested. “Do you know how difficult it was to make proper puff pastry before modern refrigeration? The technique alone…”
“Rux once spent six months in Lyon arguing with a pastry chef about the exact ratio of butter to flour in croissant dough,” Mabon interrupted. “Six months of daily visits.”
“He admitted I was right in the end.”
“You made the man cry.”
“He was using the wrong butter!”
I could get used to this. Sam had been at the estate since six, and they’d spent the first hour just talking - sitting in the library while Mabon showed him rare book catalogs, Urien described the meditation garden he was planning, and Rux debated out loud whether to serve chicken or salmon.
They’d settled on chicken - Rux’s lemon and herb recipe. It tasted a lot better the second time around.
“What about you, Urien?” Sam asked. “How do you hoard rare plants?”
“Very carefully.” Urien’s expression turned almost sheepish. “I currently have seventy-three species that officially died out centuries ago, growing in controlled environments in the greenhouse.”
“That’s incredible.”
“It’s obsessive hoarding,” Mabon corrected fondly.
“Says the dragon with sixteen Caravaggio paintings in his vault.”
“Fourteen. I sold two to fund Rux’s kitchen renovation.”
“Which I didn’t ask for.”
“You were cooking on a stove from 1987. It was criminal.”
Sam watched them bicker, warmth spreading through his chest. They did it constantly – teasing each other, but showing through every word and gentle gesture how much they cared about each other. They orbited each other perfectly, and yet they’d easily made room for him in their universe.
“Your turn,” Rux said, pulling Sam from his thoughts. “Tell us more about your writing.”
“There’s not much to tell.” Sam focused on his plate. “I write paranormal romances - dragons, vampires, werewolves, and shifters.”
“Werewolves are terrible,” Urien muttered. “Very dramatic and unreliable. They claim their moods are governed by the moon, but it doesn’t stop them from throwing a fit when there’s no moon to be seen.”
“You must like it. You were friends with the Cairngorm pack for a decade or more.” Rux chuckled.
“That’s how I know how dramatic they are.” Urien turned to Sam. “How much have you written?”
“Um… Three novels, technically. Plus about forty thousand words of a fourth.”
All three dragons stopped eating at the same time.
“You have three completed novels,” Mabon repeated slowly. “And you haven’t published them?”
Sam’s face heated. “They’re not good enough.” Maybe it was time to ask about dessert.
“Says who?”
“Me. I mean, they’re just - they’re silly. They’re all fantasies about people finding their perfect match, being chosen, all that impossible stuff.” He laughed, trying really hard not to show his embarrassment. “Hey, it turns out I was writing research the whole time.”
Rux set down his fork. “Can we read them?”
“No.” Sam quickly shook his head.
“Why?”
“Because they’re…” Sam gestured helplessly. “Gods, this is so embarrassing. Every main character is just me, but braver, and the love interests are all these powerful beings who decide this ordinary person is worth everything, and it’s all just ridiculous.”
“Er…you’re sitting in the dining room of an estate owned by three dragons,” Mabon said quietly. “It’s not entirely ridiculous, is it?”
“Well, not now, no. But when I wrote them, I didn’t know all this was going to happen, and it’s not like any readers are going to point to my main character and say, ‘Oh, yes, that happened to my cousin John, just last month.’ For most people,” Sam emphasized the last part, “the books aren’t plausible, and publishers won’t touch them. ”
“Why have you never self-published?” It was Urien who asked.
Sam blinked. “What?”
“You clearly love writing because you’ve completed three novels. Why not share them with the public who do like that sort of story?”
“Because no one wants to read about…” Sam stopped. “I don’t know. I figured if they were good enough, an agent would want them. I did query about ten of them after I finished the first book. But when none of them got back to me, I figured it was clearly not worth reading.”
“Or,” Mabon said carefully, “traditional publishing is highly subjective, and self-publishing is a completely valid path that would let readers decide for themselves if they liked your work or not.”