Page 12 of No Room at Dragon's Landing

“It makes me think of Silas, you know? The dragon in my books with golden eyes and the scar. I wish I could meet that dragon.”

“Anything is possible.”

Boen smiled. “The more I stay, the more I like this place.”

Good. Please stay. Forever, in fact.

Chapter Eight

Boen

I hated leaving Cyrus behind at the B&B, but there was no way he’d be able to get away on one of his busiest days of the whole year. And he insisted I get out there and enjoy the festival. The B&B was located at the edge of town, close enough to walk to everything but also with that fantastic view of open country behind it.

The whole town was decked out for the festival, but as I walked along the sidewalk, looking in store windows, I could see how the theme was not just for these days but all year long. Dragons were incorporated in some way or other in nearly all the signage. In all the years I’d been writing my graphic novels, I’d never been anywhere that suited me and my work so perfectly.

Banners hung from one side of the street to the other, advertising various events in the coming days. There were all sorts of things going on. Art shows, bands performing, a play, even a chili cook-off. I puzzled over the dragon connection on that one at first before noticing the flames around the letters. It was all about the fiery connection.

I was pretty sure I didn’t have the palate to manage a ghost pepper concoction, but the art show was something else, and I headed that way. It was in the center of town in a charming park, and after talking to a few of the artists, I found common ground. They were all admirers of dragons, captivated by the legends and inspired to create their own.

As I had with my own work.

One older man, a sculptor, spoke of his subject as if he was a living, breathing dragon. A real one, and as we spoke, I was almost ready to believe it. His work was so vivid, so lifelike. And what was so extraordinary was it wasn’t just a dragon. No, he’dcarved a dragon emerging from a human form. I’d never seen anything like the marble work this man created. Or a price tag like the one the sculpture carried. Not that it wasn’t worth every penny he asked. I’d have bought it myself if I had space for it.

Would Cyrus like this sculpture? I could see it in the front garden of the B&B. Taking the sculptor’s card, I tucked it in my pocket and wandered on, enjoying the other artworks before buying a snowball from a vendor to eat as I walked. The weather was a little cool for the snow cone-ice cream combo, but it was a secret passion of mine, and I never passed it up. Lavender and vanilla house-made syrups were to die for.

There were also artisans in the park, hawking all sorts of dragon-themed items like hand-woven rugs, sweaters, hats, T-shirts embossed with the fest logo, shoes, and of course hot sauce. What dragon would not like Draco’s Own Flaming Hot Sauce? There were samples to be had, and I amused myself for a few minutes, eating my cool treat while watching attendees turn red in the face and gulp water from the bottles they all seemed to carry.

I knew it wouldn’t help; they needed something creamy to make a difference, but the vendor just smirked and didn’t offer anything. His eyes were strange, the pupils different…almost catlike, and his mirth at the expense of others did not impress me.

His was the last booth before the path led me back to the sidewalk, and I continued on, not enjoying myself as much as I thought I would. I’d always been pretty independent, often traveling solo without any angst at all, so why was today different?

Each shop I visited, each stand, each display, I wondered what Cyrus would think of it, whether he would get a chance in his busy day to see any of it at all. The bookstore he’d told me about featured an all-dragons display in the window. WhenI spotted my books front and center, I couldn’t resist paying a little visit and offering to sign a few. I was prepared to prove who I was by comparison to my author shot in the books, but as it turned out, the dragon-loving clientele made that entirely unnecessary.

“It’s B. Talon!” shouted a middle-school age boy wearing a Silas mask.When did we start selling those?“I told you he was a real dragon.”

“I am not a dragon,” I protested while allowing myself to be absorbed by the crowd. They were all pushing books at me and asking for signatures and personal notes and my life story. “Help?”

Loving my fans, I didn’t want to make any of them feel unloved in return, but I was being pulled back and forth and feared I might come to harm. Or, worse, one of them might. Just as I thought I might land on the floor and be trampled, a voice shouted over the chaos.

“Enough. Is this how you behave at all author signings? Killing the writer defeats the purpose.”

I grabbed an extended hand with glossy multicolored nails, relief surging through me. “Oh, thank you.” The crowd fell back enough to let me breathe, and I took full advantage of that to follow the hand I held back to the front counter and behind it. “Thank you again.” I was a rumpled mess, not the way I wanted my readers to think of me, but other than re-tucking my shirt and running my hands over my hair to smooth it, I didn’t have a lot of options. “I didn’t think anyone would recognize me.”

The shopkeeper’s hair was braided down her back in a rainbow of shades. Her eyeshadow matched, as did her dress and even her shoes, making her quite the standout even among the colorful fest-goers. “How could they not? These young people and even their parents are huge fans of your work. I have been trying to get you here for a signing for over a year,and I’d given up. If I’d known you were coming, I’d have been better prepared. The message from your publisher or agent must have gotten lost somehow.” She clapped her hands together and went on before I could comment. “But that doesn’t matter in the slightest. You’re here, and we’ve got this! We little bookstores don’t get the big names, usually. I’m so excited.”

I parted my lips to protest, to tell her there was a mistake, that I was only here on vacation and not at all for a signing. My publisher hadn’t made a mistake—she had. But before the first words emerged, I saw the sparkle in her eye and the happiness I could give to one of the people who spent their life in support of the work I and others like me did. So, instead, I heard myself saying, “Oh, no worries. We can put our heads together and make it work.” I ticked my head toward the milling readers. “If all you fine people won’t mind stepping back for just a couple of minutes, we will get this reading up and running!”

I did signings and gave talks at big stores after every new release, but I couldn’t remember the last time I’d visited an independent seller like this. As I watched, the rainbow lady and several volunteer customers hustled, setting up folding chairs in a semicircle around a comfortable-looking chair upholstered in a cheerful cotton fabric. The shopkeeper brought a glass of ice water and set it on a small table by the chair along with a collection of pens and Sharpies, which was lucky since I didn’t have so much as a pencil nubbin in my pocket.

Becky, the rainbow lady, did not question that fact, so delighted to be honored with a signing from one of her “favorite authors of all time,” she wasn’t about to question my presence there. And, to be honest, neither was I.

Usually, I was set up on my chair with store employees and publishers’ reps handling crowd control. Now that the shoppers had had a little time to calm down, the whole atmosphere was fun and easy. I launched into my talk that I had given for thisbook release, took questions, and signed as many books as there were available. In short, Becky sold out.

By the time I left all my new friends behind, I was exhausted and cheerful. What a shame Cyrus wasn’t there. He might have enjoyed the laughter and fun. I had for sure.

I stopped at the bakery on the way back to the house and picked up some cupcakes frosted with a pattern of shiny dragon scales as a gift for my host. He’d been on my mind the whole day, and I hoped his had passed pleasantly as well. It was too much to hope he’d also been thinking of me.

Chapter Nine

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