The Dragon Protector Read online

  The Dragon Protector

  Noah Harris

  Contents

  Jack’s Quarters

  Ronnie’s Arrival

  Officially Locked-Down

  Haunted Past

  Disturbing Truths

  Bittersweet Memories

  Plans at Home and Abroad

  Plans Gone Awry

  Truths

  Clara Anaheim

  Frenemies

  A Place for Healing

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  The Dragon Protector

  Drake’s Street Book 2

  Noah Harris

  Published by Books Unite People LLC, 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 by Noah Harris

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. All resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Editing by: Jo Bird

  Beta Reading: Melissa R.

  Jack’s Quarters

  Jack

  Jack didn’t bother to set his backpack down when he walked through the sturdy wooden door, nor when he reached the end of the pink-marbled hallway leading to the kitchen. He kept it on the entire time he was rifling through the spotless fridge, and when he silently tore into the rotisserie chicken while leaning against the island.

  He didn’t take his backpack off and throw it carelessly to the side for one of the servants to pick up because it had the majority of his gear inside it; all his guns, knives, camping and stalking and tracking equipment. He didn’t want anyone stumbling on all his dangerous weapons, not Clara, not Frankie, and especially not Portia.

  He’d been home for three months now. He’d come home for Christmas and decided, after much begging from his family, to stay with them permanently when he wasn’t away on a job. Whatever permanently meant with his deeply impermanent lifestyle, anyway.

  Jack had always traveled, ever since he’d been old enough to enlist. After the battles, seeing the war-torn countries, the innocents becoming collateral damage, hating himself and his peers and the very guns they toted, he found he’d been in it for too long. This was who he was now, distant and haunted. He liked to think of himself more as a protector than a haunted veteran, but he could see the concern in his family’s faces making him second-guess that self-given title.

  “Jack, you’re home!” One of the older servants had walked purposefully into the kitchen and stopped suddenly in surprise at seeing him standing there, making a mess of the countertop. He’d known her his entire life, an elderly woman still spry on her feet and responsible for the rest of the servants in the household.

  “Hey, Rita,” he said, mouth full. She smiled awkwardly and eyed the counter for a second before digging in the fridge.

  “Frankie will be happy to see you,” she said, voice muffled by the buzz of the open refrigerator.

  “How’s she been? Same old?”

  “Yes, well, you know, as the flight gets bigger, the threats are fewer. She doesn’t have much to do really, anymore, especially with you gone for the past few weeks. She’s been a bit restless.”

  “Better her than me,” he said, swallowing the last morsel of cold, deliciously greasy chicken. Frankie had taken over from him years ago when he’d headed off to Iraq, assuming the permanent position as Clara’s head bodyguard and protector of the house. The two of them were already married, her about to give birth to their daughter, and she’d taken it all in stride, but he’d missed the early years of Portia’s life, those years of bonding he felt he’d never made up for. He knew, even if Frankie would never admit it, that had been one of the catalysts for their divorce. On good terms, always on good terms, but never good enough.

  “Well, Clara is waiting for dinner, so if you’ll excuse me,” Rita said with a serene smile, but he was all too familiar with the demand behind the smile. Out of the kitchen, please. He hiked his bag more securely onto his shoulders and wiped his mouth on his forearm, strolling back out into the hallway.

  It was empty at both ends, the hidden wall panels that led to secret passages to the rest of the mansion’s rooms were indiscernible. Someone could be standing behind one of them right now. It had been one of Portia’s games when she was little, making people guess which one she was hiding behind and scaring them if they got it wrong. She could never scare him.

  He walked down the hallway, hoping he’d be able to get to his room undisturbed. His room, which was at the end of a complex maze underneath the mansion, was his safe place. Well, the entire tunnel system was a place of refuge for him really. Quiet, dark, and so familiar to him that he could navigate it without a single use of his enhanced senses. Just memory and he’d be in his room in less than five minutes. He spent so much time down there, throughout his entire life, that they’d taken to calling the basement Jack’s Quarters. Not to his face, but he heard them refer to it as that to one another. He was actually looking forward to getting down there without talking to anyone. The flight back from his last job had been long, the sky too clear for his liking, making him feel exposed and vulnerable to the eyes of the people below. He tried to ignore the itching of his eyes, a feeling that had been nearly constant for what felt like months.

  “I heard you were home,” came a familiar voice, raspy but feminine. Frankie.

  “Hey, yeah, just rolled in,” he said with a tired smile, turning around to see her standing with her hands on her hips. She didn’t return his smile, eyeing him carefully with those striking blue eyes, her dirty-blonde hair pulled into a high, severe ponytail. He could see the muscles of her shoulders straining against the fabric of her t-shirt. It was one of those cheesy ones Portia liked to buy for Frankie, I like coffee and maybe three people. At least this one was accurate.

  “Have you seen your daughter yet?” Jack looked around, the shimmering lobby empty, the adjacent rooms similarly vacant.

  “I haven’t. Is this a trick question?”

  “I was just wondering if you went to say hello to her; you haven’t been home in a few weeks. You missed her dance recital, and Tiffani’s been a real you-know-what to her at school. She’s struggling.” She paused, then softened slightly, which he assumed was in response to the guilty look on his face that mirrored the sinking feeling in his stomach. “I’m sure she’s busy anyway. You look tired.”

  “Long night.”

  “Mm,” she hummed, nodding sympathetically. “What was it this time?” She walked over and patted his bicep kindly, sliding his backpack off. He let her take it from him, that uncomfortable tension that sometimes rose between them, a reminder of their marriage, making his palms feel slick. He didn’t want to mess up their friendship, too. A conversation wouldn’t be too bad, wouldn’t take too long. He’d be downstairs in no time.

  “Relationship gone wrong between a powerful woman and a very powerful man. He’d been sending her threats, the usual.” Frankie nodded and peered inside his bag.

  “Silver?”

  “The guy was powerful like I said. Rich, influential, and some kind of shifter. I never got close enough to find out.”

  “And the woman?” Frankie zipped the bag up in one swift motion, then turned her curious eyes on him. Rita was right; Frankie was bored.

  “Some model, up-and-coming. She got involved with the wrong people, is all.”

  “It’s lucky she had your contact details. I’m sure she’s very grateful,” Frankie said, and then she hesitated. He could tell she was waiting for him to tell her the result of the job.

 
“Guy’s dead.”

  “Clean, I hope?”

  “Always,” he said, a ghost of a smirk on his face, though he felt it vaporize the moment it appeared. Frankie nodded again and gave him back his bag.

  “You should get some sleep. You look wiped out. You have to take care of yourself, too, you know.”

  “I’m fine, J,” he said, using her nickname. Frankie J, that’s what everyone called her. He’d taken to shortening it in casual moments like this, and it always made her roll her eyes.

  “You don’t seem fine. We just want to make sure you’re alright,” she said vaguely, and Jack furrowed his eyebrows at her. “You are, aren’t you?”

  “I’m alright,” he protested, hiking his bag back onto his shoulders. “I heard you were getting a little antsy.”

  “Well, the job’s not what it used to be,” she said, with a shrug.

  “Maybe we can find you something more fulfilling,” he offered, and she waved him off.

  “I’m happy where I am. I basically work at home, and I’m always around for Portia. We should talk about her when your eyes are actually open.” He could tell from her tone that she was serious about the talk, but he chuckled at her teasing, nonetheless.

  “I’m gonna go crash.”

  “Yeah,” she said quietly, a strange, tight smile on her face. Like she was worried; this was her worried face. Jack just wasn’t used to having it aimed at him. Or maybe he’d just never noticed before.

  Jack saluted her and walked into the side room that led to the hidden door to the basement. The room was the same as it had been a few weeks ago. All the Christmas decorations taken down, the tree carted out, the furniture arranged into its normal layout, the carpet moved back into the center of the room. The only thing different was the disappearance of the few pine needles that had gotten stuck in the fibers of the carpet. He was sure Clara had gotten someone to comb through it.

  The door opened easily, as always, and he slipped inside. Down the stairs and past the security room, three lefts, two rights, and another left. He approached the locked and bolted door to the weapons storage room, and blinked several times to clear his itching eyes before holding his face up to the eye scanner. He heard the lock grind and opened the door, tossing his bag inside. He’d unpack it in the morning.

  Another two lefts and a right, and he reached his room. He walked inside and took a deep breath, rubbing his face. He was exhausted; the darkness of the underground tunnels had made his weariness all the more apparent.

  He pulled his shirt off and balled it up before throwing it into the laundry basket, did the same with his filthy jeans, and then pulled on a pair of sweatpants. Of all the comforts of home that he’d missed, his lounge clothes were probably at the top. An old metal band t-shirt that he’d gotten in his youth completed his hole-filled, worn-in outfit. He settled on the bed and lay back, folding his hands behind his head. His eyes drifted closed, finally obeying the burning of his eyelids.

  He thought about the girl from his last job, her hair curled to perfection, and her eyes lined so heavily she looked cat-like. Her arms so skinny she looked like she worked out obsessively and ate rarely. He thought about her mascara running down her face, clumping in her eyelashes, as she read him the many letters she’d received. He thought about her friends covering their puckered mouths, their stuttering hearts, their tear-filled eyes. He thought about the man, his salt-and-pepper hair, his goatee the same color, his hands small for a man his size. The length of his canines. The pinstripe of his suit. He thought about the blood soaking through the breast of his shirt, his jacket, turning the pinstripes so dark they disappeared in the black fabric. He thought about picking up his body, limp, slinging it over his shoulder, the only scent detectable that of blood and cologne. He’d died and taken his identity with him. A shifter, he’d been told, but now he was just a body smelling of waste and blood and the Caron Poivre he had sprayed excessively on his wrists and exposed chest. He thought about shifting into his dragon form, huge, powerful and rippling with heat, letting whatever was trapped inside him burst forth in a small explosion. The body, burned beyond recognition, the sickly-sweet scent of blood and flowers the only thing that remained. The same scent as in Iraq, the civilians and villains alike crawling to reach him and beg for his help. He thought about the gun, heavy in his hands. His teammates laughing, shooting, laughing, shooting.

  The door opened, and he sat up quickly, teeth already lengthening in his mouth, reaching under his pillow for the small pistol he always kept there. His grip relaxed, though, when he saw Portia edge into his room.

  “Hi, Dad,” she said, her voice small. He let out a quivering breath and smiled welcomingly at her, gesturing for her to come in.

  “Come sit,” he said, and Portia smiled and entered the room. Jack was always surprised by how tall she was, especially when he was sitting. She seemed to tower over most people when she was standing up straight, even without her pointe shoes, her legs long and skinny like a colt’s, her hair wild and dark, nearly black, like his. It reached her lower back and looked like it hadn’t been brushed in days. Her feet were bare and looked battered. She settled on the edge of the bed beside him and looked around the room. She seemed to be avoiding his eyes.

  “Mom said not to come bother you,” she began, glancing at him with those pale green, ghostly eyes of hers. He shook his head, reaching out to pat her hand.

  “You can always come bother me, Poe.”

  “I thought you were sleeping.”

  “I was trying to,” he said, and she nodded.

  “I can’t sleep either.” She looked down at his massive hand resting on top of her long-fingered, delicate one. He looked at her worriedly, and sidled closer, bumping shoulders with her.

  “Why not?”

  “I feel…I don’t know. My brain won’t turn off. I want to run.”

  “You want to run?” he chuckled, and she smiled up at him bashfully.

  “I don’t know!” she said, nudging him. “I want to go. I want to…Clara said I should talk to you, she said you’ll know how to help.”

  “Well, I’m glad she said that. You can always come to me when you need something, you know, Poe.”

  “I know, Dad.” He looked at her carefully, the bouncing of her legs, the fidgeting of her fingers. She had hangnails on every one. “What’s wrong with me?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with you, Portia,” he said in surprise. “We all get restless sometimes,” he said, struggling to find the words. He’d meant it, she could always come to him. That didn’t mean he’d always know what to say. Frankie was better with Portia, seemed to have a library of ready responses to any of Portia’s troubles. Portia, to him, was a mystery he wanted desperately to unravel, but still couldn’t. She looked just like him, and Jack loved her more than life itself, but she seemed like a stranger sometimes. Distant enough to make him feel like he was failing.

  “Yeah, I guess so.” Portia looked up at him, her thick eyebrows joining in the middle. “Are you okay, Dad?”

  “Of course, I am,” Jack said, feeling taken aback. Those smoky eyes were looking through his skull. “I’m…well, I’m having trouble sleeping, too. For a long time, now.”

  “Why?” Portia looked back down at her hands, which she’d gathered in her lap. She was picking at one of the hangnails. Jack reached out and smoothed them in her lap.

  “Well, I guess it’s like what I said. I’m feeling restless.” There was silence between them, and then she stood up, facing the door.

  “Did you kill anyone while you were gone?”

  “Portia,” he breathed, and she looked back at him. A curtain of dark hair hid her face, but he knew she could see him staring up at her, baffled.

  “I know what you and Mom do. I know it’s just your job.”

  “It’s not something you should be hearing about, Poe,” he said soothingly, and she shrugged. He could sense her mood changing, tensing, darkening.

  “I’m old enough to know things,
” she said coldly, and then she angrily brushed her hair behind her ears. “I’ll just let you sleep.” He opened his mouth, but couldn’t think of anything to say. The frown on her face seemed so deep it would leave a permanent mark. Then she swept out of the room like a breeze, and he buried his face in his hands, his eyes still itching painfully.

  Guilt. It sank into Jack’s skin, into his muscles, making him feel even heavier than he had before. He wanted to be home, he enjoyed being around his family, seeing them interact, watching Portia grow. But the guilt was too much, sometimes. It made his dragon curl up and hide away. He knew Portia didn’t understand her parents’ divorce, and probably resented them for it. She hadn’t seen them during their time together, only as friends. The marriage had been short, but it had been as loving and supportive as it could’ve been. He didn’t know how he could’ve made it better. The love had been there, but not the spark.

  Clara had set them up, him, her current bodyguard, Frankie, a new human recruit suggested by Fiona Barker, Clara’s personal assistant. He knew what Clara had been thinking when she’d introduced them, pulled strings, given them shifts together. She was trying to give him what she knew he was missing, what he’d been missing his entire life, love, devotion, and unwavering, constant support. Clara couldn’t give it to him; she was a good leader, a talented caretaker, but not a good mother. His youth had been spent in these tunnels, training to be a fighter, a guard for her home and family. Your father, before his death, was a great fighter and guardian to our flight. He kept us all safe, and so will you.

  He remembered the first time he’d met her, his father’s recent passing and his mother’s lifelong absence giving her occasion to visit. He’d been sitting at his father’s funeral, a true dragon’s funeral, burned on a pyre on the outskirts of a nearby forest. Everyone had moved on, mingling a little deeper into the forest where they’d set up tables of food and wine, but he had sat watching the embers crackle and smelling the sickening scent of his father’s torched corpse.