Page 1 of Dragon Her Heels

Prologue: “Misfortune comes to all who choose to live here.”

My real estate agent regarded the sprawling estate at the end of Fox Hunt Drive with open disdain. I questioned everything about his reaction to the beauty of a home. While the vast majority of ancient homes in Florida graced the shores of St. Augustine, the property on Lake Hancock dated to the Tudor era, standing out in an area where ranches, trailers, and single stories dominated. According to the placard on the entry, the four story manor had been built in 1601 by a Spanish lord wishing to offer his English bride familiarity in a foreign land.

He’d built her a miniature palace. Interior renovations had resulted in twenty bedrooms, twenty-five bathrooms, numerous offices, several sitting rooms, a kitchen on every floor, and a wine cellar that somehow survived Florida without becoming a flooded, moldy disaster. I had questions about the wine cellar, and the instant I had the deed in my hands, I would be exploring to learn more about the property.

Hints of the Spanish influences remained; the stable, barn, and guest house were Spanish Colonial in nature, as were the well house and several other auxiliary buildings nobody knew the purpose of. I would be making good use of the stable and barn; I meant to get chickens, several cows, a few horses, and everything I needed to sustain myself even if the world around me went mad.

I’d ridden my first horse at age three, and I’d spent my luxury money on riding lessons to fill the void in my life. From dressage to jumping to barrel racing, I’d done just about everything. One discipline had eluded me, the one my heart longed to chase after witnessing horses thunder around a track, their manes and tails whipping.

At least one thoroughbred would be mine, and I’d take the opportunity to pursue my dreams before the realities of the world came crashing in again.

According to my calculations, after I paid the down payment, which was sufficient to eliminate the mortgage insurance, I could thrive for a few years without worrying about work.

In reality, I could pay for the property in cash. Depending on the situation, I might eliminate the mortgage altogether.

Being an executive secretary for a profitable company had helped with that, especially as I’d been wise enough to insist on a stock package and bonuses founded on stocks upon my hiring ten years prior. At the ten year mark, my stock packages for my initial hire and the following six years had all vested. I’d sold out, taken the money, and run from Fort Lauderdale the instant I could.

I’d spent the past three weeks in a nearby hotel, watching and waiting for the property to drop just a little lower before hiring my real estate agent.

I regretted the agent, but he was the best the area had to offer.

He’d done his best to convince me to purchase any other property but this one. It had taken offering an additional percentage to convince him to get me a viewing, which had involved a great deal of headache contacting the previous owner.

The previous owner, upon hearing a dragon had razed three cities in Georgia, had decided to flee to Europe where the demonic scaled harbinger of destruction wouldn’t be able to get him.

He’d listed the property for fifteen million dollars.

I’d believed that sum to be a bargain despite not being able to afford anywhere near that much.

Time had passed, and month by month, the price dropped, first to fourteen million, then to ten million, and then down to six million, all without a single nibble of interest.

I questioned the lack of interest, wondering what tidbit of knowledge I lacked.

As the price had sunk, my interest had grown.

Six million remained out of reach, but time had done its work and showered me with favor.

One year following the destruction in Georgia, the price had dropped to two million dollars.

I could have afforded the two million, but my frugal tendencies had gotten the better of me, and I’d settled in to wait.

Two months later, it had dropped to a bargain bin price of five hundred thousand.

Now, one year and four months later, with the owner asking for three hundred thousand, I meant to make the mansion mine, and I’d use my money to transform the home into a hermit’s dream.

Mr. Louis Haggart made a strangled noise in his throat. “Miss Culling, I can show you far better properties than this one.”

Could he? I peered over the wall separating the overgrown pastures flanking the edifice; like many Tudor manors and castles, it utilized an E-shaped foundation. Originally, the building had been in more of a U shape, but the original owner had wanted a garage to safeguard his vehicles should a hurricane come calling. It could hold six vehicles, and not even a category five would faze it.

The entire property featured a five foot wall to prevent floodwaters from destroying the grounds, including a barricade system designed to close off the entries; when set up and filled with water, it served as a blockade meant to divert floods.

Magic in the walls and gates also served to divert water as well.

In the property’s history, even through the toughest of storms, the roof had needed to be repaired once.

Magic also protected the windows, and before magic had returned to the world, shutters had done the job admirably. I expected a huge bill to fix the landscaping. While the previous owner had hired a company to keep the interior clean, the exterior had been permitted to run wild and free.

At least a hundred baby alligators roamed the grounds, and where there were babies, there were the monsters that could send a person to their grave.