Page 17 of Purring for Her Lion
He finally lets go. I sit up straight, hands folded, face serious.
“Better?” I ask, voice dripping sarcasm.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Much.”
We drive in silence, the landscape growing more enchanting. Trees shimmer, leaves glinting like they’re dusted with diamonds. The road narrows, winding through hills that don’t show up on any map.
“Almost there,” Roarke says. “Stay close to me. Don’t wander.”
“Why? Is it dangerous?”
He shakes his head. “Not dangerous. But easy to get lost. Literally and figuratively.”
Before I can ask, we crest a hill and Crystalline Springs appears.
“Oh,” I breathe. “Oh wow.”
The town nestles in a valley, surrounded by vibrant hills. Buildings range from quaint cottages to elegant Victorians, lining winding streets that make no sense. The color is what gets me: everything is vivid, alive. Rooftops gleam, some shifting hues as I watch. Gardens burst with impossible flowers.
And everywhere, crystals. Jutting from the ground, built into buildings, adorning the streets. The whole place glitters like a living jewel.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, unable to look away.
Roarke grunts, steering the truck down. As we enter, I press my face to the glass (carefully, this time), taking it all in.
People—or beings that mostly look like people—move along the sidewalks. Some have pointed ears, odd skin, folded wings. Others look human, until you catch the glow or the way plants lean toward them.
Roarke parks in front of a shop: “Mortimer’s Magical Menagerie,” the sign says, letters shifting and swirling.
“Stay close,” he reminds me. He grabs the egg, handling it with care.
“I’m glued to your side,” I promise, but my eyes are everywhere, greedy for magic.
Inside, the shop is a wonderland. Shelves from floor to ceiling, jars and boxes filled with things that glow, shift, or puff colored smoke. Instruments hang from the walls, ancient and futuristic at the same time. Glass cases display eggs, none as large or dazzling as ours.
A tall, willowy person with silver hair and faintly blue skin looks up from the counter. Their eyes widen at Roarke, then nearly bug out when they see the egg.
“Dr. Khoran,” they say, voice melodic, echoing. “This is unexpected.”
“Mortimer,” Roarke nods. “We need incubation equipment. Blue mountain dragon.”
Mortimer’s gaze shifts to me, one eyebrow arching. “And this is…?”
“The egg’s guardian,” Roarke says, and my heart stutters at the word.
Guardian. Of a dragon egg. Me.
Mortimer studies me, their iridescent eyes seeing right through me. “Interesting choice,” they say at last, not clear if it’s to me or Roarke.
While Roarke and Mortimer talk shop, I drift toward a display of gemstones near the window. They’re unreal: shifting colors, some with tiny galaxies inside. I reach out, mesmerized?—
Roarke’s hand closes around my wrist.
“Don’t touch,” he says, low and stern.
“I wasn’t—I mean, okay, I was. But they’re so pretty.”
“And magical. With effects you’re not prepared for.”
