Page 9 of Courted By the Grumpy Dragon (Monsters of Saltford Bay #2)

Chapter Six

Kraxon

The dragon skeleton dangling from Henderson's Hardware Store grins at me with empty sockets as I stride past, its plastic bones painted a garish purple that clashes with the autumn leaves.

Every storefront in Saltford Bay seems determined to outdo the one beside it in Halloween excess.

Paper bats swarm across windows, plastic tombstones sprout from flower boxes, and enough fake cobwebs drape the lampposts to outfit a small spider army.

I grimace and quicken my pace toward Town Hall, the folder of documents tucked securely under my arm. The Victorian building rises ahead, its white columns and copper dome gleaming in the afternoon sun.

After two days of reviewing Mrs. Stonemason's meticulous records, I'm convinced Nina is correct.

Harold's financial planning shows clear intent to fund the library endowment.

Every document, every board meeting minute, every donor acknowledgment points to a man whose priority was securing the library's future.

The new will makes no sense.

But I’ll still need more. Nothing I’ve discovered so far proves without a doubt that Harold didn’t have a last-minute change of heart. Which is why I’m here.

My footsteps echo against marble as I enter Town Hall's main corridor. The scent of old paper and furniture polish fills the air, familiar and professional. Filing a motion for extension of probate, should buy me the time I need to gather concrete evidence.

The town clerk's office sits at the end of a long hallway lined with oil portraits of former mayors, their painted eyes seeming to track my movement. I knock once before entering.

Behind a massive oak desk sits an elderly werewolf woman, silver hair pulled into a neat bun, half-moon glasses perched on her nose.

She looks up from a stack of papers, her eyes an iridescent blue that is definitively not human, her expression shifting from mild curiosity to something approaching pity.

She knows who I am, even before we’re introduced.

Not a promising start.

"Mr. Ashbane," she says, her voice carefully neutral. "What can I do for you today? "

"I need the forms to file a motion for extension of probate proceedings. For the Greaves estate." I approach her desk, maintaining my professional composure despite the warning bells chiming in my head. "I require additional time to investigate a recently submitted will."

She sets down her pen, the sound sharp against the wooden surface.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible, Mr. Ashbane."

The temperature beneath my scales rises incrementally.

"Could you elaborate?"

"Ms. Vance's attorney filed a motion to expedite probate yesterday morning. Judge Morrison granted it." She removes her glasses, cleaning them with unnecessary care. "The hearing is scheduled for November first."

The words hit like a physical blow. November first. The day after Halloween. Four days from now.

"On what grounds did the judge grant expedited proceedings?"

She replaces her glasses, meeting my gaze with obvious discomfort.

"Ms. Vance presented concerns about the estate's exposure to… individuals of questionable reputation that might compromise the good name of the late Mr. Greaves."

Individuals of questionable reputation. They mean me. My firm. The scandal that follows me like smoke.

"I see." I keep my voice level despite the heat building beneath my skin. "And the judge found these concerns credible?"

"Mr. Ashbane..." She leans forward, lowering her voice.

"I probably shouldn't say this, but Ms. Vance has been quite vocal about certain irregularities in your firm's recent history since she’s been in town.

She's suggested that your personal...difficulties.

..might affect your objectivity as executor. "

The scent of ash begins to curl from my pores. The clerk’s nose twitches, and I know she can smell it. Damned sensitive werewolf smell.

I breathe deeply, focusing on control.

"My firm was cleared of all wrongdoing by the Bar Association. The investigation was thorough and conclusive."

"I know that. You know that." Her expression grows sympathetic. "But perception has a way of taking on a life of its own in small towns."

Perception. The word tastes bitter in my mouth. Erroll's betrayal continues to poison everything I touch, even all the way here in this sleepy coastal town.

"Thank you for the information."

I turn to leave, but her voice stops me at the door.

"For what it's worth, Harold spoke very highly of you. He trusted your judgment completely."

I turn to her and nod, then leave. My footsteps echo in the empty hallway like a guilty verdict as I walk and the eyes of the old mayors follow me with suspicious glare.

Outside Town Hall, I pause on the steps, gulping the salt-tinged air. My wings press tight against my back, the fabric of my shirt straining against my muscle. The scent of ash clings to me like guilt, impossible to shake.

Four days. Delilah has outmaneuvered me, using my tarnished reputation as a weapon. The move would be admirable if it weren't so personally devastating.

I need to clear my head . I need to fly .

I take to the air, heading high above the cliffs, then above the ocean, where I lose myself to the speed, to the feeling of the wind in my hair and the sting of the air on my scales.

I only return to the carriage house as the sun hangs heavy over the horizon and shadows lengthen across Windfall Manor's grounds.

Inside, I spread Harold's documents across the wooden table once more, searching for something, anything, that might serve as concrete evidence of his true intentions.

Financial records, board meeting minutes, correspondence.

All of it supports Nina's claims, but none of it carries legal weight against a properly executed will.

Hours pass. My frustration builds with each page, each dead end. The handwriting analysis will take weeks. The witnesses appear legitimate. Every legal protocol was followed.

Delilah, what did you do?

A soft knock interrupts my brooding. I cross to the door, expecting my brother or his wife with another invitation to join them for dinner. Instead, Nina Farrington stands on my doorstep, cheeks flushed from the cold, a piece of paper clutched in her gloved hands.

The sight of her sends an immediate jolt through my system.

Heat blooms beneath my scales as a breeze carried her honeysuckle scent to me, sweet and warm despite the October chill.

Her brown hair falls loose around her shoulders, and her eyes hold a mixture of hope and determination that makes my chest tighten.

"Nina." I step back, creating distance between us. "This is unexpected."

"I found something." She holds up the paper, excitement vibrating in her voice. "Can I come in? It's freezing out here. "

I hesitate, acutely aware of how heat is rising under my scales just looking at her, how even when I try, my gaze always circles back to her perky, round mouth.

I’m all too aware of how small the carriage house is, how intimate the space will feel with both of us inside it.

How I will be alone with her for the first time since I kissed her in that corn maze and totally lost control.

But my pheromones affected her. This must mean something.

I shake the intrusive thought away. I should really tell her to meet me in the library tomorrow morning. But she’s here, standing in the cold October night, and turning her away would be unconscionably rude.

"Of course." I finally relent, moving aside so she can enter.

She enters, bringing the scent of cold air and honeysuckle with her. I close the door and watch as she takes in the scattered documents on the small dining room table, the dying fire, the evidence of my mounting desperation.

"You've been busy." She removes her gloves, tucking them into her coat pocket. "Any luck?"

"Some." I move to the fireplace, adding another log to avoid looking at her directly. "Though not enough."

"Well, this might help." She extends the envelope. "I was going through my desk at the library and found this. It was mixed in with the invoices for the new children's books."

I take the envelope, our fingers brushing in the exchange. The contact sends heat spiraling through my body, and I catch the faintest hint of my own cinnamon scent beginning to rise. I step back quickly, focusing on the document .

The letterhead reads "Coastal Memorial Engraving." The invoice is dated October thirteenth, just three days before the second will that eliminated the library funding. My pulse quickens as I read the details aloud.

"Memorial plaque, bronze, twelve by eighteen inches. Custom engraving per customer specifications."

"Read the message," Nina urges, moving closer. "The one Harold wrote himself."

I scan down to the engraving text, written in Harold's distinctive handwriting:

"In memory of Harold James Greaves, who believed that books are doorways to infinite worlds. This children's section is funded through his endowment to ensure that every child in Saltford Bay has access to those doorways. May his love of literature inspire generations of young readers."

The words hit me with the force of years of friendship. The grief of Harold’s departure hurts like a slap across the face. Harold's own hand, describing the endowment as established fact, written just days before the will that supposedly eliminated it.

Nina was right. The library was Harold’s legacy. The probability that a man such as Harold changed his mind without explaining himself to anyone, days before his death, seems farfetched, even to my skeptical mind.

I won’t let you down, old friend , I promise silently.

"This shows clear intent," I murmur, studying the date again. "He paid for this memorial plaque describing an endowment he supposedly removed from his will days later. "