A Shade of Dragon Read Free

we will!” The trunk came open and Dad muscled each bag onto his back and under his arms. “Let’s head on inside, sugar plum. I know Zada and Sage can’t wait to see you.”
    Just up the garage steps, through the back door, a female voice shrilled, “Not in my house!”

Chapter 3: Nell
    I climbed the stairs behind Dad, wanting to spot him in case his foot slipped with so many bags loading him down, then grabbed the door for him to enter. The beach house was freezing. That was my first impression. My second impression was Zada, marching from window to window, waving a fuming smudge stick of sage and followed closely behind by her progeny, also named Sage.
    “Honey bear,” Dad coaxed, dumping the bags unceremoniously on the floor. I frowned. My laptop was in one of those. “What’s going on? Why are you smudging the house?”
    “I saw a UFO,” Sage announced, trundling past us without acknowledging me. Naturally—he was fourteen, and it was hard for any fourteen-year-old to notice anyone not reflected back at them in a mirror. He had wild, frizzy auburn curls, which were growing out into a serious afro, wire-framed glasses, and braces. “Hey, Nell,” he called over his shoulder without looking.
    “Hey,” I replied, lackluster.
    “There’s no such thing as aliens, because we live in an interdimensional, spiritual reality, not a linear, spatial reality, like ‘science’ claims.” Zada marched to the garage door and smudged it. “When we see a UFO, Sage, you know what we’re reallyseeing is a demon, right? This world is filled with them! Haven’t you seen the news lately?”
    Dad laughed. “You mean those hoaxes out in the Pacific?”
    “They’re not hoaxes!” Zada cried.
    I believed with all my heart—or perhaps with all my brain—that the videos which had recently emerged in the news were, in fact, hoaxes. Vampires. Werewolves. Blah, blah. It was nothing that couldn’t be rigged together by a crew of pranksters with some video-editing software and access to the drama department’s wardrobe closet.
    “Honey?” Dad prompted. “Remember… dinner?”
    Zada turned and, for the first time, seemed to really see both Dad and me. “Right,” she answered, smudge stick still peeling in her hand. “I’ll go get it. It’s so good to see you again, Nell.”
    “You, too,” I offered.
    Zada Brinkley had long, wavy copper hair, accessorized with dreadlocks, beads, and feathers. She was a petite but muscular woman, her figure sculpted from likely years of clean eating and low-impact, but consistent, exercise. She seldom wore a stitch of makeup, and her typical attire was a loose, floor-length skirt—particularly patchwork—and shirts with messages about conflict diamonds, palm oil, and sweatshops.
    “Come on into the dining room and settle down; you can always unpack later,” Zada invited, ignoring the spots of coffee which still speckled my white sweater. Though annoyed by the offer, I had to suppose that my father’s fiancée was speaking from the goodness of her heart, and ignored the urge to refuse.
    In spite of how chill the house was—as you could only pump so much heat to combat the icy spray coming directly off the Atlantic—the dining room did achieve a sunny atmosphere, with its walls the color of coral and its fabric wall hangings with peaceful sayings crocheted into them. Bless This House & Make It a Home, was one of them.
    I settled into the chair my father pulled out for me and beheld the hideous tabouli salad. It looked like a greenish mish-mash, though I had to admit that it smelled all right. From a distance. “What… is this, exactly?”
    “It’s Mediterranean,” Zada explained, dipping tongs into the mess and extracting a nice, goopy pile for my plate. “The health benefits are phenomenal. Of course, what I really like about eating meals that are high in vitamin K and manganese is that they help decalcify your pineal gland.”
    I nodded and poked at the salad. “I