The Last Dragon Lord

IV

IV

Amal Shalewood drove down the coastal highway of the western continent with the ocean on her left. The foamy gray waves washed against the rocky bluffs of the highway, and she tasted the salty air on her lips. She’d been glad that she decided to ride with the top down so she could enjoy the crispness of the coastal air. That she was driving at sunrise made it all the better.

In her rearview mirror, the hopeless maze that was Magic Hope City lay far in the distance, like an urban crystal against the hilly landscape.

She adjusted her sunglasses and was glad to be out of the city for a while.

She’d been running a long, almost futile campaign, and the city just made her think about all the things she had to do and whether they were even worth doing.

She was a distant third in the polls so far. Her party, the Progressive Party, had all but abandoned her. They had told her it was too late to do anything and that she had squandered her opportunity. Not that there was much of one in the first place since there was a strong incumbent.

Governor Grimoire had sixty-three percent of the vote.

Lucan Grimoire had thirty-seven percent.

And she, Amal Fredericka Shalewood, the only human in the race -- a woman and a dark-skinned one at that---was stuck at seventeen percent. Her numbers had been slipping lately now that Lucan was on a warpath against his uncle.

She and her husband had already had “the talk” -- about dropping out of the race and keeping whatever dignity was left in her bank account.

But she wouldn’t quit.

Not yet.

She passed a sign for the Bogville exit, ahead in one mile.

She shut shut off the cruise control in her convertible and took manual control.

She took in the sandy air and told herself she should get to the beach more often. If she lost the election, which almost seemed inevitable at this point, she’d have a lot of time on her hands. Maybe she could get her position back as head of the Magical Crimes Unit.

No. If Lucan won the election, that wasn’t going to happen.

She’d been appointed as a magical detective almost on a whim. The planets had aligned and Governor Grimoire had been looking for someone fresh to fill up his appointment selections. Despite the fact that her appointment was obviously to fill a seat, they’d had a good working relationship.

She’d been lucky. She was the only human to ever lead the Magical Crimes Unit (MCU), an oxymoron since she couldn’t cast.

Her conviction rate had been decent too.

She put illicit magic users in prison, and she brought an analytical understanding to the office, and her working knowledge of spells and runes rivaled elves’. She and her husband--also a human -- gained the respect of the other elven detectives and became somewhat of a power couple in the MCU.

Nothing to criticize. Her opponents had certainly not made her record a target in the election, and that was a sign that she had done something admirable.

If only she felt like it.

She signaled and turned off the coastal highway onto a lonely outer road that ran alongside the beach. Before long, a small seaside town appeared in the distance. A windmill spun in the wind, reflecting sunlight off its steel flaps.

As Amal entered the outskirts of Bogville, she began to notice just how out of place her red convertible was. The other sedans and trucks in traffic were grimed with dust so thick you could write in it with your finger.

Elves sat on the front porches of the general stores and the restaurants, staring at her as she passed.

True small town.

How would they respond to a human driving around?

At least if she was passing through she could have stepped on the accelerator and driven far away from here.

But her GPS told her she had arrived at her destination and she looked for a place to park. She put on her turn signal and eased into an empty space in front of a Gavlin’s Magical Store. It was a small masonry building with two stories and a shingled veneer. Brown weeds grew in the cracks between the asphalt. Seagulls, who had made a nest on the building’s second floor, fluttered over the convertible, cawing.

She shut the car off and took off her sunglasses.

How many Gavlin’s had she been to in the city? Dozens if not more. They were always upscale magic stores, with superior construction, and they made you feel majestic when you walked in, like you were a part of something bigger than yourself.

Here it was no different than a country store. She wondered if it was deliberate.

She grabbed a portfolio on her passenger seat and checked it.

Aerial photos of the Ancestral Bogs were inside, as well head shots of several people—all witnesses to the events that happened a few days ago.

She flipped the page to a brown-haired woman. She was elven and wore thick glasses and a necklace that consisted of shiny plastic moons, stars, and planets.

ANNETTE POTIONBERRY, AGE FIFTY-THREE

BOGVILLE RESIDENT

Amal memorized the woman’s profile. Thank God she still had a contact in the Department who gave her information on the sly.

The bog incident mystified her, and she didn’t know why, but she was drawn to it. She shouldn’t have been doing her own solo investigation—there were so many risks—but she told herself she had no choice. Something about all of this was strange beyond explanation, and no one had answers.

Once a detective, always a detective.

She stepped out of the car and walked up to the front entrance of Gavlin’s. She expected the door to open, but it didn’t. She had to push it open and when she did, a bell chimed and the smell of spicy herbs and incense overwhelmed her.

This definitely was Gavlin’s, all right. It was like a grocery store, but for magic.

All along the walls, shiny stacks of grimoires reflected the daylight, neatly organized and classified by rune type.

She passed a pyramid of frankincense and myrrh soap, strolled through an aisle of healing lotions before she reached the customer service desk.

A young elven girl sat behind the counter, and she had been watching Amal from the moment she entered. She had bright, orange eyes that reminded Amal of burning topaz, and long silver hair. She wore a blue polo—he standard employee uniform at Gavlin’s.

“I know you,” the girl said as Amal reached the desk.

“Good morning.”

“I said I know you,”’ the girl repeated. “You’re running for governor.”

The girl’s frank demeanor surprised Amal.

“Well, yes, I’m….”

“You’re Amal Shalewood,” the girl said. “I’ve seen you on television.”

“Nice to meet you, too. Listen, I’m looking—”

“They’re murdering you,” the girl said, her face turning sour. “Why don’t you just quit?”

“I’m looking for—”

“Grimoire is walking all over you.”

“Which one?” Amal asked, frowning.

The girl pulled out a grimoire and it flashed in front of her face, projecting a holographic video of Lucan Grimoire. The lanky billionaire stood on a stage giving a speech.

“I support the only Grimoire who matters,” the girl said.

Amal set the portfolio down forcefully on the granite counter.

“May I ask why you like Lucan?” Amal asked.

“He gets our positions.”

“Which are?”

“He’s elven,” the girl said. “He’s a businessman. He’s an outsider.”

“I’m human,” Amal said. “I was a businesswoman. And if you haven’t noticed, I’m an outsider too.”

“You didn’t build a billion-dollar business.”

“Is money the ultimate measure of success?”

The girl paused, flustered.

Amal slipped her a business card. “I’ve known Lucan for a long time, and I don’t doubt his ability. And I get that you feel obligated to stick with your own. I understand that. But if you’re concerned about the environment, I’ve actually got a track record, sweetheart. Email me sometime and I’ll send it to you. Now can you do me a favor and find Annette Potionberry? I have a meeting with her.”

The girl regarded the business card. Her eyes still had a stubborn look, and she wrinkled up her face as she ran her fingers along the embroidered stitched type that glowed when she touched it.

“Is this your actual email?” the girl asked, “Or is it monitored by an assistant?”

“It’s my personal email,” Amal said.

They stared at each other for a moment until the girl looked away. She slid the card to the side and picked up a telephone.

“Annette Potionberry to customer service.”

The girl avoided Amal’s gaze and occupied herself with organizing some receipts in a junk drawer under the counter.

Amal wasn’t getting her vote, that was certain.

This hadn’t been the first time she was attacked. “You’re stealing votes from the one who deserves this election,” people would say.

“Well, the one who ‘deserves’ it is stealing your future. What do YOU deserve?” Amal had always replied. It came off as abrasive, but she wasn’t going to sacrifice her positions. She wasn’t going to be bullied.

She was running because she believed in the future of the planet. She had grown up in the mountains, where the aquifers first started to dry up. And she had watched as her father, an engineer, was powerless to do anything about it. She’d watched him weep like a baby when the mountain crumbled, the place where they had made their home for ten years.

Her mother had refused to leave. She crumbled with the mountain.

All over the world mountains were crumbling. Rivers were polluted and ran brown and society stood by and did nothing.

A low, feminine voice distracted her.

“You’re looking for me?”

Annette Potionberry wore a blue polo with the word “manager” stitched into it. Her brown hair had streaks of gray in it, and her thick glasses looked even bigger in person. She looked similar to her headshot. Most people looked nothing like their photos, but this woman was an exception to the rule.

Amal extended her hand, but Annette folded her arms. Typical elven hospitality.

“What do you want?” the woman asked.

Amal opened the portfolio and showed the aerial photos of the bog.

“I’m investigating the incident at the Ancestral Bogs, and I understand you were a witness,” Amal said.

“I thought the government was investigating,” Annette said. “You’re a political candidate, not an investigator.”

“I heard the government crossed you off its investigation witness list,” Amal said.

“How did you know that?”

Amal pulled out her smartphone and showed a news website with an article titled Government investigation whittles down witnesses. The phone auto-scrolled down to comments, and it drew a red box around a comment written by Annette. It said:

I saw what happened, but they won’t talk to me. Guess I’m not important.

Annette puffed at the sight of the comment. “Yeah. They really pissed me off. There’s no dismissing what I saw.”

“Then why don’t we take a walk,” Amal said, starting for the door. She held it open and gestured for Annette to follow. “I promise that I won’t dismiss you until you tell me everything.”