Sleigh Bells and Dragon Spells (Whispering Pines #8)

Chapter 8

EIGHT

D awn crept through frost-covered windows, casting pale fingers of light across Falkor’s spartan bedroom. The ancient dragon shifter opened his eyes, already alert. No lingering drowsiness clouded his mind – centuries of existence had stripped away the luxury of lazy mornings.

His cabin, nestled deep in the woods outside Whispering Pines, matched his minimalist nature. Bare wooden walls housed only essential furniture: a sturdy bed, a worn dresser, and a simple desk. No photographs adorned the walls, no mementos cluttered the surfaces. Everything served a purpose, nothing existed for sentiment.

Falkor rose, unbothered by the biting cold that permeated the room. Dragon blood ran hot in his veins, making the human concept of comfort irrelevant. With a snap of his fingers, flames roared to life in the stone fireplace. He watched them dance, remembering a time when fire brought joy rather than serving as a mere tool.

The kitchen proved equally austere. Falkor prepared his morning ritual of black coffee and dry toast, movements precise and economical. A folded piece of parchment on the kitchen table caught his eye – Cedric’s latest attempt at social intervention.

Picking up the note, Falkor scowled at the elegant script:

Don’t forget – drinks at Hartley’s tonight. You promised to be more social, old friend. No excuses this time. -C

“Stubborn dragon,” Falkor muttered, though a hint of fondness crept into his voice. Cedric Fernwood, fellow dragon shifter and town mayor, refused to let Falkor retreat completely into isolation. Their shared nature created an unspoken bond even if Falkor resisted it.

Steam rose from his coffee cup, curling like spectral fingers in the cold air. As Falkor sipped the bitter liquid, unwanted memories surfaced – crystalline and sharp as the frost outside his windows.

“Christmas is for the weak, my son. Those who need trinkets and traditions to feel worthy.”

His mother’s voice, cold as midwinter ice, echoed through the centuries. Morganna Grashen had wielded the holiday season like a weapon, using it to demonstrate her power and their dependence. Every Christmas became a lesson in control, each gift a chain binding them tighter to her will.

Falkor’s grip tightened on his cup until the ceramic creaked in protest. Even now, eight hundred years later, the memories retained their poison. He forced his fingers to relax, watching the coffee ripple in the cup.

Evangelina’s face floated to the surface of his thoughts – his sister, the only one who truly understood. Where was she now? The last time they’d spoken... Falkor pushed the memory away. Better to maintain the distance. Their shared trauma created a chasm too wide to bridge.

A gust of wind rattled the windows, drawing Falkor’s attention outward. He strode to the door, stepping onto his snow-covered porch. The storm had intensified overnight, far beyond natural weather patterns. Dark clouds roiled overhead, filled with more than just snow.

Falkor inhaled deeply, his enhanced senses cataloging the scents carried on the wind. Pine, frost, wood smoke from distant chimneys – and something else. Something wrong. An undercurrent of magic tainted the crisp mountain air, leaving an acrid taste on his tongue.

“This isn’t natural,” he growled, intense eyes scanning the tree line. The storm carried echoes of old power, reminiscent of... No. He wouldn’t indulge that thought. Yet the similarity nagged at him, impossible to dismiss entirely.

Back inside, Falkor glared at Cedric’s note again. Perhaps venturing into town held some merit, if only to gather information about the strange weather. He could maintain his distance while still assessing any potential threats.

Decision made, Falkor changed into dark jeans and a black sweater. Simple, practical clothing that wouldn’t draw attention. He ran a hand through his jet-black hair, securing it in a loose tie at the nape of his neck. The signet ring on his finger caught the firelight, its ancient engravings a reminder of obligations he’d rather forget.

The walk into town gave him time to fortify his mental barriers. Christmas decorations appeared with increasing frequency as he approached civilization – wreaths on doors, twinkling lights strung between buildings, ribbons and garlands everywhere he looked. Each festive touch grated against his carefully maintained composure.

Hartley’s Brewery emerged in the distance, its warm lights a beacon in the deepening gloom. The establishment’s rustic charm suited its bear shifter owner. Wooden beams crisscrossed the ceiling, supporting strings of amber lights that cast a gentle glow. Holiday decorations remained tastefully minimal – Bram Hartley understood the diverse nature of his clientele.

The instant Falkor stepped inside, Cedric’s commanding presence drew his attention. The mayor sat near the massive stone fireplace, accompanied by Kade Blackwood and Bram Hartley. An interesting gathering – dragon, wolf, and bear. The town’s most powerful shifters in one place.

“The prodigal dragon returns!” Bram’s booming voice carried across the room. The bear shifter’s broad grin stretched his neatly trimmed beard. “Quick, someone mark the calendar. This requires commemoration.”

“I’ll add it to the town records,” Cedric played along, his golden eyes twinkling. “Historical event: Falkor Grashen remembers civilization exists.”

Kade pulled out a chair. “Sit before Bram declares a holiday in your honor.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Bram wagged his finger. “I’ll brew a special beer and everything. We’ll call it ‘Dragon’s Descent.’“

Falkor suppressed a smile as he took the offered seat. “Your wife might object to another holiday. I heard she’s already planning three festivals for next month.”

“Ah, so you do pay attention to town gossip,” Bram clapped his hands in triumph. “See? He’s not completely hopeless.”

A bottle appeared in front of Falkor – dark glass containing an amber liquid that sparkled mysteriously in the firelight.

“My latest creation,” Bram announced proudly. “A smoky ale with hints of cardamom and star anise. Been aging it in whiskey barrels for months.”