Dragon Amour (Dragon-Half Breed Book 1) Read online

  Other Books by Robin M. Ambrozic

  The Gray Mage Novels

  Piccolo the Gray Mage

  Piccolo the Initiare: The Dark Gate

  Piccolo the Initiare: The King’s Gambit

  Gods War Chronicles:

  Dragon Half-Breed Series

  Dragon Amour

  The Lovers Series

  Tatum’s War (coming 2017)

  Miscellaneous:

  Choice (short story)

  Piano (short story)

  The Executioner (short story)

  The Grape Escape (Children’s story)

  Wolf’s Pack (short story)

  Night’s Knight (poetry)

  The Girl next door (poetry)

  Dedication

  Joan Joy Ambrozic

  A wonderful Mother and an amazing author.

  Thank you for all of your encouragement and love.

  ©2016 Robin M. Ambrozic. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  ISBN: 978-1-48358-928-2 (print) • ISBN: 978-1-48358-929-9 (ebook)

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One: Apollo Academy

  Chapter Two: Christmas Jitters

  Chapter Three: Gabriel

  Chapter Four: A Hero Arrives

  Chapter Five: What was I thinking?

  Chapter Six: Disquiet at the Apollo

  Chapter Seven: An Egg?

  Chapter Eight: How to Get Asked to the Big Dance (and not make a fool of yourself)

  Chapter Nine: Chaos before the Dance

  Chapter Ten: Playful Antics

  Chapter Eleven: Oh…there be Dragons here

  Chapter Twelve: Dragons are People too

  Chapter Thirteen: To Further the Tale of the Gods War Chronicle

  Chapter Fourteen: New Suspicions

  Chapter Fifteen: The Hockey Game

  Chapter Sixteen: Orientation

  Chapter Seventeen: The Week before Prom

  Chapter Eighteen: True Amore

  Epilogue: Really, you let her die?

  Why does love require blood?

  Shouldn’t love require nothing more than just an open heart? A heart vulnerable to the possibilities of never ending dreams, beautiful sunsets, moonlit nights, and any number of fantastic adventures in the depths of the eyes of the one you love? To waste countless hours in shared moments, which can’t be described but are instantly recognized by the spiritual connection between them? Two lovers so closely intertwined with a common sense of purpose that each is incomplete without the other.

  Isn’t that what people imagine when describing love?

  Now, I understand that love is a thing of strong emotion; the heaven of heavens, the hell of hells and arguably the most glorious, pathetic, euphoric, and most painful thing a person can experience in their relatively short lives. I mean, civilizations have been destroyed because of love! Troy and Camelot are two that come to my tired mind, but it’s more than an emotion. It’s like a drug. A drug so addictive than even the most potent medications throughout history can’t be compared. But it’s worse than a drug; it’s better than a drug. Love is deceiving that way, because it places its consumer in an altered state of morality. Love has no moral compass. It breaks down a person’s moral judgement to the point that it can over write years of learned sensibilities, and make a person do things that even evolution or religion has engrained in you not to do. It is its own Being. A Being of great power. A Being of cruelty. A Being of ecstasy. A Being of harmony. So, after all that, I ask: Why do people crave, seek, and desire it? I’ll tell you in one word: Freedom.

  The freedom to delve deep into one’s own heart and explore a range of emotions that is incapable by any other means. To examine the very core that makes up a person’s total being, and lay open the flaws and strengths in each of us. Who would do that? What sane person would want to expose themselves like a fish being filleted for the world to see. To become so vulnerable and naked that everything a person has done is open for criticism or praise. All for an emotion that offers no guarantee that the other will feel the same way as you do…. I would.

  Have you ever noticed how cold stone can get if you lie upon it for any length of time? Or how blood, as it runs down your arm, leaves warm steaming beads that rises into the cool night air, just like if you were stepping out of the hot springs at Steamboat. I miss Steamboat. I never really gave much thought to those sensations. Frankly, I never gave much thought to anything around me. I have great friends, a wondrous family, and a life that is actually really fantastic. Unfortunately, in typical teenage fashion, I hate my life, my friends are average, except my family rates a ten. All of which shows just how stupid teenagers are. Anyway, I guess it’s just a curse of being young I suppose. Youth is wasted on the young, some famous actress said. But that isn’t really fair. Everyone views the world differently. In fact, I myself just became aware of how large and wondrous our world is.

  Ever noticed how bright the moon can be? You really have to get away from the lights of Denver and even the mountain towns to truly appreciate it. If you just go outside the city and gaze up at the moon, especially when it’s full, it’s like a spotlight. A spotlight on the stage of life. Beautiful.

  What is that? It looks like something is moving in the forest barely hidden in the shadows of the trees. Maybe my eyes are playing tricks on me. Funny how your eyes play tricks on you in the dark, even if the moon is bright. Shadows appear to move even when there is nothing there. But there are lots of things in the night that we are not aware of. Not the normal critters that run around looking for food or those that become food, but ‘things’. ‘Things’ live in the dark. And not your usual monster movie things either: vampires, werewolves, zombies and such, though I’m sure they are out there too. I mean, ‘other’ things. Things that would make a vampire shudder. Things so hideous that to look upon them is to look into the very depths…what was that? Nothing. More tricks. Despite the warm summer night, I’m so cold. My arm isn’t warm from the blood running down it any longer. Wonder why? Have you noticed that blood doesn’t look as red at night? Actually, nothing looks as good as it does during the day. Except him.

  My Dad listens to a band, and older band an there is a poem from one of their songs that reminds me of tonight. I think it goes like this….cold hearted orb that rules the night, removes the colors from our sight, red is gray and yellow white, but we decide which is right and which is an illusion. Beautiful, isn’t it? I wish I could write like that. Let’s see…I think the band’s name is The Moody Blues. A great band, really. I like their music. I’m so cold.

  But that isn’t true either. I have seen the most beautiful thing I have ever seen during the day, and probably at night too. Probably the only fixation that defies my earlier observation and sounds as sappy as it is true. Even now, I can see his face so clearly, just as if he were standing right in front of me. Golden blond hair, cut neat against his ageless face. Hazel colored eyes so wise and warm, eyes you could gaze into and forget that time continued forward. And his smell. Oh, god. I use to get as close to him as I could, even from the beginning, he just smelt so good! He smelled like…honey…and the scent of fresh caramel corn, just like my grandmother use to make before she passed when I was in elementary school. His smell is intoxicating. He…Wait, did I hear something moving? The surrounding forest is so dark, despite the full moon. It
is so hard to see now. I’m growing tired. Is something moving over in the woods? Damn, I wondered when they would find me. I knew it wouldn’t take them long with all the blood I left behind. But I hoped. Their devils, you know. I can’t quite see them, but I can smell them. Death and decay. I wish I’d recognized it earlier when I could have done something about it. But now, I don’t need to smell them, I see their red glowing eyes watching me.

  “Scared, cowards!” I can’t even tell if those words came out.

  You might wonder who ‘they’ might be. Remember the ‘things’ I mentioned earlier? That’s what’s sulking in the forest out there. My mind is growing slow. I can’t think. The soft beat of my heart and the soft rhythmic beating of the egg fills my ears. I can hear the rustling leaves in the wind. Have you noticed that when the wind blows through the leaves it sounds like water? I love water and ice cream. Ice cream is where I first found out. By accident of course. Isn’t that how most things happen? By accident? Happy accidents, I love them. Ah, I miss him. Those red eyes are moving now. I see them, even though my vision is fuzzy. Just now, a shadow has passed in front of the moon. It looks like a plane, but with a funny tail. The sound of its engines I can’t hear but it quickly becomes a shadow against the night sky. My heart races and pounds in my ears, maybe that’s why I can’t hear the plane. Closer now, the red eyes are…cautious. The red eyes move slowly across the ground. I am about to die. Blood. Blood and love. One and the same.

  “I love him!” My voice cries out into the night.

  Cruel laughter floats back from the woods, or is it the wind?

  “My blood is his!” I yell to the laughter in the wind.

  The wind gusts and what sounds like a helicopter’s blade chopping the air echoes through the night. The red eyes disappear, looking over its back I guess at the sound, and when they turn around, I see the fear in them. Fear! Deep fear!

  “Afraid!” My hoarse voice whispers.

  The red eyes turn cruel. Rage, death, and a lust for blood have replaced the fear - almost.

  “My friend has arrived. My best friend, Brooke!” I laugh, but it comes out more like a gurgled cough. I feel something wet run down the side of my mouth. The red eyes move faster now. They slither across the ground, wanting to kill me. Needing to kill me.

  I think it will. I sigh. She won’t get here in time.

  Love is the greatest thing ever. It solves all the problems; it cures all the aches of the heart; it makes each day a joy to live. I’m glad I finally got to experience it before I die. I thought I had been in love before, but those were just pre-loves, better than crushes, but not as good as the real thing. More like training wheels of the heart. But of course I have my best friend Brooke to blame or thank. I think I’ll thank her. She’s the one that started this whole journey.

  The eyes race at me now. I see the fear, hate, and cruelty in them. Everything opposite of what his eyes held for me.

  I let my eyes close and hug the egg as close to me as I can; just as I didn’t get to do as often as I would have liked with him. My senses have become hypersensitive as I near death. I can hear the ‘thing’ running across the ground now. Closer and closer it rushes while my heart slows.

  My last thoughts will be of him. I will remember, from the very beginning, how I met him, came to like him, and eventually learned to love him.

  As I think of him, I cough a laugh. His real name I can’t even pronounce. Never could. No matter how many times I practiced it, I just couldn’t.

  I hear the ‘thing’ leap into the air. Its mouth opening. In my mind’s eye, I see its four large fangs dripping with saliva in anticipation of its meal.

  But I only think of his name.

  The one I came to love.

  The fangs dig deep into my side.

  I scream one word in pain – “Gabriel!”

  Apollo Academy

  Brooke reached across the aisle and handed me a note. My eyes shifted up nervously to Dr. Daugherty writing on the smart board with his finger; most of the other teachers use the magic pen, but Dr. Daugherty told us he thought it was cool to just use his finger. Magic he called it.

  I crumpled the note in my hand and shook my head, no. Brooke nodded for me to open it, her blue colored hair, (the color of blue berry cinnamon flavored snow cone syrup, which no one could replicate), emphasized my compliance.

  “No.” I mouthed.

  “Chicken.” She mouthed back.

  I knew she’s was baiting me and she also knew my curiosity would eventually get me. With forty minutes left in Dr. Daugherty’s English class, the note was like a cookie in front of the Cookie Monster. My eyes fixed her with a steely gaze of death, but she covered her mouth and giggled.

  I rolled my eyes. You might be wondering why I hesitated in opening the note. For one thing, it’s going to be some dumb drawing, and despite Brooke’s excellent art work, it will be a little on the raunchy side. Then I’ll laugh, causing everyone to look at me, and I hate being the center of attention. The other reason was, as soon as I start to open it, no matter how quiet I think I’m being, Dr. Daugherty will hear me. Even though his back was towards us, he’ll embarrass us both, which is why I think Brooke does it. She liked the attention.

  As Dr. Daugherty began to lecture about the nuances of rhythmic poetry and finished writing the day’s assignment on the board, my hand clenched tighter around the note. Dr. Daugherty’s calm rhythmic speaking voice did nothing to curb my growing curiosity. I looked back at Brooke and she didn’t meet my eyes. This made me believe that Dr. Daugherty had already deduced my transgression even before I had begun. I turned to look; he still had his back to us. Several muffled giggles reached my burning ears, but none more loudly than Brooke’s. Knowing I should just give in, I resisted my urges for a few more agenizing minutes before running out of willpower and gave up. Keeping a close eye on his back, I pain staking, ever so slowly open the note, and without turning around or missing a beat, Dr. Daugherty’s voice reverberated like a church bell through the room.

  “Ms. Ritter, unless you want to share with the class the drawing of what Ms. Wasabi and yourself will be doing this Christmas break, I humbly suggest that you put said note into your backpack and wait until lunch, which is only a small amount of time away.”

  My face flushed as everyone turned towards me. Brooke absorbed the attention as her blue eyes sparkled with mischief.

  “I think you should make them show us anyway, Dr. Daugherty.” Robby Fredricson announced.

  “What they do on their time is their business, Mr. Fredricson.” He said. “No need to embarrass them. Correct, Ms. Wasabi?”

  Brooke smiled. “I appreciate your understanding of the situation, Dr. Daugherty. A woman’s affairs are not for public scrutiny. Her time is her own.”

  I laughed as did others. Even Dr. Daugherty’s shoulder’s moved up and down with mirth. Brooke was indeed one of his favorites and it’s because they banter with each other as if they were both from the 18th century.

  “Agreed,” he concurred.

  I placed the note in my bag. “How did you know?”

  He pointed to the back of his head with his left hand. “I have a third eye.”

  The class laughed.

  Then he held up his right hand and wiggled his index finger. “Magic.”

  The class laughed again.

  After the earlier incident, the end of class came pretty quickly.

  “Okay, make sure you finish the poems by Cole, and I want a three page analysis of Random Matthew’s poem, Knights Night, and Alexa Gharster’s poem, Loves Lost Labors.

  An audible grown issued from the class.

  “But it’s Christmas break, Dr. Daugherty.” Nancy Ettle whined.

  “The world still turns, Ms. Ettle.” Dr. Daugherty whined back, closing his books. “People still work, the weather still comes and goes and the universe continues on. Times stops for no person. Three pages and I don’t want to see double spacing between each word, clear Mr. Jones?”r />
  Carl Jones, our star wrestler, nodded sourly.

  Mona Fritz raised her hand. “Why did Random Matthew kill himself?”

  Dr. Daugherty sighed. “A poet’s life, I guess. Poets probe the darkest and brightest reaches of society and their own mind. They push for understanding at the very edge of metaphors, life’s questions and how everything fits or doesn’t fit. They remind us of what it is to be human; a monster, a lover, and everything in between. Some can come to grips with what they reveal and others can’t. Sylva Plath and others are great examples of being haunted by their own demons and being unable to cope with them. I guess he was the same way.”

  Brooke raised her hand.

  “Yes, Ms. Wasabi?”

  “What are you doing over break?”

  Dr. Daugherty’s eyes lit up. “I’ll be in England for two weeks rummaging through every out of the way book store I can find.” He rubbed his hands together.

  “That sounds fun.” Carl smirked.

  The bell rang.

  “It is.” Dr. Daugherty smiled. “Be safe out there, and love as much as you can.”

  I smiled. He says the same thing every day at the end of class. He’s one of my favorite teachers too, even if he is the head regent of Apollo Academy.

  The lunch cafeteria was crowded, which it always was. Even though the campus is open for juniors and seniors, the principle, Mr. Resler and the regents, have the local culinary school come in and prepare meals every day for the students. The food is usually so good and the cost so cheap, that everyone just stays. Which is the way the regents want it, I think. Each lower grade has an upper buddy grade that comes to lunch with them, so the meals are very diverse. Luckily, seniors can opt out if they choose. Brooke and I won’t be buddies next semester, but we’ll still help with the afternoon daycare for the kindergarten through second grade, so we’ll see plenty of the kids we worked with at lunch.

  Brooke and I wondered through the long tables that separate each grade. It didn’t take long to find the senior table and I waved to Taylor at the kindergarten table; she’s lives down the block and is a junior. She waved back, just as her kindergarten buddy tossed salad onto her nice sun dress. Taylor sighed and then a voice rang out over the din.