Introduction
I am officially a divorcee who is muddling through a midlife crisis. As if being single in my forties isn’t traumatizing enough, my ex tried to kill me, my best friend thinks orcs are coming after us, the town is convinced I’m a witch, and my daughter moved back in with me.
These last few months have been a hectic ride, and the fun isn’t over yet. I’m in dire need of a job, so the smart thing would be to apply for some mind-numbing work. Something easy where all you have to do is show up. The bills must be paid.
Instead, I’ve decided to go out on a scary limb and open my own shop.
What was I thinking?
As if I am not stressing enough, I am having a string of horrid luck. Attempted murder. Assault. Vandalism. Someone is trying to mess up my life.
And I’m so done with it.
I’ve been given a second chance. I am on my way to becoming a happier, healthier me, and I am not letting anyone screw that up.
But what am I supposed to do when the line between reality and the impossible starts to blur? Do I see a doctor for medication or begin to accept that, just maybe, magic does exist? And would somebody please find my ex-husband? He’s escaped jail and is apparently threatening to kill me again.
#PWF
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Prologue
On December fourteenth, Canadian Corrections confirmed that Martin Dunrobin— currently being held without bail for attempted murder, assault, and arson—had escaped from a minimum-security prison in Southern Ontario. Per a news release, Mr. Dunrobin failed to appear during a head count, leading prison staff to discover the inmate was no longer contained within the facility. A search for his whereabouts is underway.
Martin Dunrobin was arrested several months ago in connection with numerous arsons, including that of his own home. At the time, Naomi Rousseau, his ex-wife, was living inside the home. While Mr. Dunrobin claims he never intended any harm, the prosecution is arguing that this was a murder attempt. After the fire that destroyed their family home, Ms. Rousseau moved away. Mr. Dunrobin is alleged to have followed his ex-wife to Canada, where he proceeded to stalk, harass, and even vandalize local businesses she happened to be a patron of. Mr. Dunrobin was arrested by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and deemed a danger to reoffend. Bail was denied while he waits for his court date.
At this time, it is not known how Mr. Dunrobin managed to escape; however, authorities are concerned about his current state of mind. A prison guard, who wished to remain anonymous, spoke of horrible things written on Mr. Dunrobin’s cell walls. In his words, “Very sick shit.” The escaped prisoner is considered to be armed and dangerous.
If you think you’ve seen Martin Dunrobin, do not engage. Please lock your doors and contact your local law enforcement.
1
The massive dragon head rose from the water, the ridges giving it a menacing shape. Its muzzle clamped shut, hiding its massive maw, its eyes alight with white fire. The only noise came from the water dripping from its moist, scaly skin.
Its unblinking gaze was fixed on me, keeping me frozen in place—which didn’t seem like a great idea because, when it smiled, its jaw unhinged and showed off its rather pointed teeth. There existed a strong possibility the dragon in the lake was related to a piranha. Which actually made it even worse. In the movie I’d watched featuring those sharp-toothed buggers, the water churned red when they fed. And if one was bad, imagine two or three of them.
I swallowed hard as I stared at the trio of bobbing heads, suspended on long necks. Or was it their bodies? Didn’t matter as they undulated and weaved over me.
No amount of Kegels in the world would have stopped me from peeing myself a bit.
What else could I do with a three-headed water monster swaying in front of me? It wasn’t as if I had a sword like some jacked-up superhero. I didn’t have a gun or even a fishing rod.
I had legs, but apparently they’d stopped working. I glanced down at my feet that suddenly weighed a gazillion tons. Trying to lift them proved impossible. I didn’t move the slightest bit.
If I could have, I would have run like I’d never run in my life, because I just knew this wouldn’t end well. While I couldn’t twitch a muscle, I could panic like a champ. My breathing hardened, huffing pants with a hint of holy-crap squeak. Those heads wove in slowly, moving closer. Ding Ding Ding. Lunch is served.
On the menu today, Naomi Tartare.
Run.
What was the point? I knew my limitations.
Run, you idiot.
My inner voice turned rude, but it had a point. I really should do something other than gape in petrified horror as the open maw on the middle head descended.
Move!
Too late. I was engulfed, which resulted in me marinating my pants. I also yodeled. “Argh!” Any moment, I expected the sharp crunch as I got chewed to bits.
It swallowed me! I stiffened, and then I went completely nuts, rolling and thrusting with arms and legs, only to be confined. Trapped.
Caught in my comforter.
The realization I fought my blanket caused me to pause. I hadn’t been eaten. Yay.
On the boo side, I really had peed myself. Getting old sucked. And it was more work, too! I’d have to wash the comforter, which was not how I wanted to start my day. Lying still, I blew at a hank of hair strung across my sweaty face.
Why me?
I should have been happy I’d woken in my bed, uneaten. Yet not only had I wet myself, I appeared to be wrapped in a tight cocoon. It took some grunting and effort, but I eventually managed to free an arm and a leg. However, my attempt to extricate my second arm saw me rolling off the edge of the bed onto the floor.
Damn. Oops.
Another one of my fine moments. I was on a roll this morning. Hello, I am Naomi Rousseau, hitting the other side of forty, divorced, still about thirty pounds overweight, and, despite all my attempts, not quite winning at life. Did I mention I was clumsy, too?
I used to have a gym teacher, a kind man, who claimed my lack of coordination came from being left dominant. A lefty who smeared all her schoolwork, the blue pen staining the side of my hand all through high school. The struggle was real.
Then there was the stigma of being left-handed. There was a cashier at the grocery store that used to perform the sign against evil whenever she saw me, and I am pretty sure I once heard her mutter something about me going to hell.
Going to hell because I wrote with the less dominant hand. Seemed a little extreme to me. Meriting a spot in Hades should be a little more difficult, say like having dirty thoughts about random men. I’d been doing that a lot lately.
I’d heard stories about women getting horny when they hit midlife. I’d assumed it was a myth. I’d not felt anything at all when I was married to Martin. Barely the slightest interest and the few times I did get in the mood—usually by reading an excellent book—I took care of business myself—quickly, with sticky fingers and a hint of shame as if I did something tawdry.
Of late, I’d gotten over that mental block. I had to because, once I’d accepted being single, my body went into carnal overdrive. Suddenly I became very interested in sex—and my lack of. I wanted to get laid. If only I could get the nerve to date.