When Lyra McCauley learns residents of Dragonspeir’s
Alliance are suffering with a deadly plague, she doesn’t heed the warnings of
her fiancé, wizard Cullen Drake, to remain safe in her human world. After all,
she’s the present Scribe—one of five strong women in her ancestry who possessed
unique magic, each destined to protect the Alliance against the evil Black
Dragon of the Dark Realm. With Cullen dependent upon Alliance power to maintain
his immortality, the stakes are doubled for Lyra.
She leaves her college teaching and puts herself at risk for
the community afflicted by black magic. To find a cure, she and Cullen travel
into the vile, lawless underworld of Terza to strike a bargain with an expert.
Their efforts further enrage the Black Dragon, vowing to decimate the Alliance and
avenge the murder of his heir.
Lyra must secure the three lost volumes of the
Book of Dragonspeir. Written by the
three earliest Scribes, each book contains energy. Possession of the entire set
will enable overthrow of the Dark Realm. Following clues into dangerous lands,
Lyra and Cullen seek those volumes. His assistants, Kenzo the tiger owl and
Noba the pseudodragon, prove invaluable aids. Only if they succeed, will the
Alliance be safe and Lyra reach closer to the immortality she needs to live a
life with Cullen.
Lost Volumes: Enchanted Bookstore Legend Three is available at Amazon.
Excerpt:
From Chapter One: An Urgent Message
Lyra almost
deleted the email marked urgent, suspecting some virus that might take control
of her computer, but stopped when she realized the sender was her lover—a
220-year-old wizard, who rarely used a computer. She couldn’t open the message
fast enough.
Lyra,
Alliance
mortals and lower magicals are taking violently ill. I’m leaving the bookstore
for a while to offer aid. DO NOT come to Dragonspeir. Stay safe in your world.
Love
always,
Cullen
She stared at the
screen, twisting a strand of her long hair. Leaning forward, she gripped the
armrests of the chair. Her breath caught when she noticed how the dragon’s
sapphire eyes on her new bloodswear ring sparked from the energy of her
concern. His message left her undecided, reading between the lines and weighing
the choices.
Those affected—mortals
and lower magicals—seemed to place her in the risk group, obviously Cullen’s
concern. However, those mortals were all born in Dragonspeir, while she
originally came from Tampa. Lower magicals did include members of both worlds.
But as the current Scribe, Lyra possessed inherited power at least as great as
high-order wizards. She just didn’t fully grasp how to command her magic yet.
She did want to
help. Since her parents and dear Aunt Jean died, the Guardians, wizards,
dragons, and other residents of the Alliance were her only family. Lyra’s
unique powers might be useful, especially since they now lacked an alchemist.
Eburscon
disappeared after he attempted to steal her scribal aura, and she’d heard no
reports of him since, so he was presumed dead by many. According to Cullen, no
one wanted him back. However, living without a person capable of creating
remedies for a plague or widespread illness had left many residents uneasy.
Some talked about trying to persuade Tarom, the Dark Realm’s alchemist, to
switch his allegiance. Two centuries ago, he served the Imperial Dragon,
leaving only when he couldn’t tolerate working under Eburscon any longer.
Despite ranking as
the top wizard, the Imperial Sorcerer in the Alliance High Council, Cullen
lacked alchemical skills. Even though untrained, Lyra possessed a keen
intuitive sense in the craft. She could help him. Aries guided the fire in her
scribal powers and also fueled her impatience.
Lyra checked and
secured Aunt Jean’s cottage since the last gasps of late winter storms in the
upper peninsula of Michigan could be brutal.
Dashing off a few
emails to her college students in Florida, she gave them feedback on their
independent study in the Fantasy Lit course. She was glad her leave from
on-campus teaching responsibilities continued until the next fall term.
Lyra saved and
printed the chronicle draft of her bloodswear quest, completed at the end of
last year. It was mid-March, and she’d almost finished the written account,
storing magic in her words that would empower the Alliance—her role as a
Scribe. The hard copy she stuffed into a commuter bag to work on later with the
Imperial Dragon and the other three Guardians. She needed to sort through their
research details that had helped her kill the heir to the Black Dragon.
Additional supplies could be conjured from memory.
Outside, the dock
in the backyard looked weather-beaten but sound. Waves from Lake Huron lapped
at its old boards. In the flower bed, the first spring perennials peeked
through the packed ground and would require plenty of care soon. Lyra hoped to
be back in time to maintain what her aunt had loved so much. Crocuses stood
bravely against the melting snowpack—a reminder.
As she turned from
the garden, a large black butterfly flitted around her head. It was the same
type that had spied on her before and been in her aunt’s room when she was
killed—purple spots like eyes on its wings. Suspecting it was a transformed
magical from Dragonspeir’s Dark Realm, Lyra swatted at the insect. Thinking
that someone watched her leave caused a chill to run down her spine.
Finally shooing it
to the nearby bushes, she lifted her head high, put her bag inside her silver
Subaru sport wagon, and drove straight to Drake’s Bookstore.
After parking in
back, she twisted her dragon ring to unlock the back door of Cullen’s shop, no
longer needing the magical skeleton key. “Sheridan, I’m using your portal,” she
called out.
From his cage on
the showroom counter, the cicada chirped, “I already knew it was you,
sweetheart. Nice perfume.”
Lyra shook her
head. Darned bug never stopped flirting.
“By the way, Sire
Drake told me to not let you pass. Something about an illness in the Alliance.
Don’t make me use my magic on you.”
“I’m going
anyway,” she replied as she prepared herself in the storage room.
“Like I knew you
would,” he snapped.
She gave her ring
another twist and stated, “Pateo porta!”
In response, two metal bookcases moved apart. Between them lay the connector to
Dragonspeir. She stepped across. The familiar tingling sensation now felt
invigorating, when last summer it had frightened her. Her jeans, t-shirt, and
jacket transformed into a full-skirted gown of light blue cotton under a navy
cloak.
It was her first
time back since being publically honored for completing her bloodswear quest
and sorcery studies. She’d have to wait to find out if her new abilities could
alter the clothing she acquired at the portal.
Lifting one side
of the long garments, Lyra ran the short distance along the wooded trail to the
location of the old, sentry tree, Gatekeeper Cranewort. Reminding her of the
shape of grand live oaks in Florida, his branches spread wide and high, taller
than any nearby. His large, flat leathery leaves were turned to collect the
warm morning rays.
“Hello,
Cranewort,” she called ahead. “I don’t mean to disturb your sunbathing, but I
need to pass to the Imperial Dragon’s lair, or to the Meadow—whichever place I
can help most with those who are sick.”
“Not sunbathing,
child, merely enhancing my immune functioning to bolster my health after the
harsh winter. Sire Drake instructed me to not permit your passage. He and all
of us fear you will fall ill.” He lifted extensions of his roots into a spiky
barricade, one of his gate-keeping defenses.
“Perhaps I can
help,” she maintained, hands on her hips.
“It looks to be a
horrible disease—elevated fever, chills, vomiting blood. Some are dying. Please
stay here, Adalyra.”
“I’m not like any
from Dragonspeir. I won’t get it.” Lyra hoped what she said was true but
couldn’t turn her back on thousands who were ill.
“Well…you most
certainly are unique.” He folded his leaves and tipped his trunk forward to
look at her directly. “The Alliance relies on your special scribal abilities to
battle the Dark Realm. Losing you to illness would risk too much. Be wise and
stay back.” He smoothed down his bark and held out a twigged hand to her.
She stepped beyond
his touch. “The entire Alliance is my family, and I need to help them.”
The gnarled tree
let out a sigh and lowered his roots. “Very well. You have your own mind, and
it is one of a leader. That is your inheritance from the four female Scribes in
your family. But, I expect you to use every caution available. Sire Drake is in
the Meadow. Stay with him.”
“I promise.” Lyra
hurried toward the crossroads, which connected dozens of trails. There she
selected the short path leading to the Meadow.
Pluch trees lined
the trail. Their weeping branches, active with new sap, swept after Lyra in
attempt to caress her golden hair, now grown almost to her waist. Flower buds
on the bell flowers peaked out. The air held gentle notes of fragrant jasmine
from the vine’s first purple flowers. She took a deep breath as she sped down
the familiar walk. She had missed Dragonspeir.
Along the way,
Lyra thought about her action, entering the land without permission. Although
she recently passed sorcery training for all crafts except powerthrowing, Lyra
only elevated her immortal status. In Dragonspeir, they used the term afflation—having received divine impartment of knowledge and
strength to endure more physical hardship than a non-magical. Until gaining
enough afflation to become fully immortal, she needed to be invited by the
Imperial Dragon to be his guest in Dragonspeir.
As a new Alliance
sorceress, the Imperial Dragon decided when he needed her. Lyra clearly broke
his established protocol. But she often bent Alliance customs to suit her needs
while working for the greater good. So far, she had only raised eyebrows, and
no one troubled her. She hoped this time would be the same, but entering a
plague-ridden land against orders was a bit different than wearing jeans or
hugging dragons.
Lyra was first introduced to Dragonspeir as a young girl,
when she met the high sorcerer, Cullen Drake, through a gift of one of those
enchanted books. Using its magic, he escorted her into the parallel world of
Dragonspeir. Years later, she lost that volume and forgot the world and Cullen.
These legends begin where he finds her again—she is thirty-five, standing in
his enchanted bookstore, and Dragonspeir needs her.
