Ruby: The Dragons of Veil Valley, #0

By L. Genaro

If you've made your life about traveling, what do you do when you find someone you can't bear to leave?

 

Lester Heath was a young man who dreams of being an old soul. He's spent most of his life traveling the world in search of unique stories to add to his raconteur repertoire. When his travels take him to sleepy Renhearst, the tales of an unforgettable place called Veil Valley are too good to pass up. He soon catches the eye of the mysterious keeper of the New Estate. Will this fierce and fiery woman finally change his wandering ways? Or will he be the key to showing her the world?

• Language: English
• Publisher: L. Genaro
• Release date: Aug 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393049319

Book preview

Ruby

A Dragons of Veil Valley Novella

L. Genaro

Cover by Deranged Doctor Design

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Epilogue

Chapter 1

THE VIEW OUT THE WINDOW was gorgeous. Or at least, it had been gorgeous for the first three hours. Now it was just monotonous. A few hours of nothing but snow-covered trees had a way of dulling the mind after a while, especially as the setting sun made them harder and harder to see. Lester would normally distract himself with some surfing on his phone, but a combination of poor reception and the positively toxic nature of the Internet lately had convinced him to keep his entertainment analog in nature. Conversational opportunities on the bus were pretty light as well. As they’d continued north along the snowy Vermont road, each stop left the bus just a bit emptier. For the last six stops, it had been just him and the driver, a gruff fellow who didn’t seem terribly interested in conversation.

Still, when the options were to watch his seven millionth icy tree swish by or potentially annoy a bus driver, the choice was a simple one.

So. I bet this route probably gets to you, Lester said.

The driver glanced to him briefly from behind tinted glasses. He didn’t feel obliged to respond.

It’s getting pretty late in the day for sunglasses, isn’t it?

This didn’t even warrant a glance.

I guess the glare can get bad. Except that we’re heading north through the shadows of trees. So, not so much.

Ahead, the first thing that could even charitably be called a landmark in at least a half-hour of driving became visible.

Oh, hey! Civilization! he said. What’s this stop?

Renhearst, the driver rumbled.

Never heard of it. Is it nice?

To me, it’s just a stop.

Not the curious sort, I take it?

The driver didn’t answer.

"You know what’s a great place? Bar Harbor. I might head back up there. Excellent blueberry pie. Best I ever had. Most of the people go there for crabs, I think, but if you took one look at that pie, the way they paired it with a scoop of ice cream..."

The bus pulled aside rather abruptly, cutting Lester’s anecdote short and nearly knocking him from his seat. The driver opened the doors and waited. Lester scanned the stop, then the surrounding roadside.

Seems like there’s no one waiting, buddy. You can probably get going, he said.

Last stop, The driver pointed. Off.

"This is the last stop? I thought this took me as far as Montreal."

Nope. Last stop. Off.

When’s the bus to Montreal then?

Don’t know. Last stop. Off.

He scratched his head, then shrugged. The trip to Montreal, like most of his destinations these days, had been determined by which bus was leaving at about the right time. One stop was as good as another, so long as there was something new to see. He shouldered his heavy pack and extended the handle of his rolling suitcase.

Guess I’m going to get to experience Renhearst then.

Lester stepped off the bus, which promptly pulled away. That it continued down the road rather than turning around made him wonder if perhaps the bus driver had just ejected him rather than enduring small talk for another few hours. He brushed the thought aside and tugged his coat a little tighter. He didn’t remember passing any border markers, so Renhearst must have still been in Vermont. It had to be within spitting distance of the Canadian border, though. A late October evening this far north translated to awfully low temperatures that would only slide lower as night set in. Fortunately, the one and only place of business in the area was right across the street from the bus stop. It was a little roadside place called Remi’s Motorlodge and Pub. A freshly painted section of the sign suggested the proprietors had recently covered up a bit of vandalism.

Here’s a place that looks like it’ll have some personality, he said.

DESPITE THE LOFTY CLAIMS of the sign out front, the so-called pub was a bar at best, a dive at worst. Not that he minded. Lester had always been the kind who would take a drunken arm wrestling match in the corner over the mélange of hipsters, millennials, and boomers that tended to show up at the trendier spots. There was just something so much more genuine about a place that ended up the way it was, rather than trying to design an experience. That said, the lack of customers didn’t give him much confidence in the place. For what seemed to be the only watering hole in town, he would have expected everyone with an evening to kill to be crowding the tables. As it was, there was no one inside but the bartender, a bubbly looking blue-eyed woman.

Come in! Come in! she said. Have a seat right up front. Can I get something up on the jukebox for you?

How much does it cost? And how much is a beer?

First one’s free, and first one’s free.

He plopped down on the stool. I can tell I’m going to like this place already. Just give me something cold and wet—in the beer family. And on the jukebox, how about you pick your favorite.

She grabbed a glass and started filling it from the nearest tap.

You sure about the song? I’ve got eccentric tastes, don’t ya know.

Good. Anything but the same five songs making the rounds on the radio.

The radio? Do folks even listen to the radio anymore? Oh my word, I thought it was all cell phones and ear buds these days.

He watched curiously as she made her way to the jukebox. She was walking, but the word seemed unbearably clumsy for the way she was moving. Her steps were positively buoyant. She may as well have been gliding for how smoothly she walked.

I spend a lot of time in cabs and ride shares and such, he said. It’s top 40 stations or conversation, and you’d be surprised how often people pick the radio. Conversation is getting to be a lost art.

He took a sip of the beer as the song she selected started up. The music was, as she warned, quite unusual. It was as though someone had tried to build an entire orchestra out of flutes, lutes, and glass harmonicas. That said, it was hauntingly beautiful.

And the beer...

What kind of beer is this? he asked.

Do you like it? she asked. It’s a bit strong for some people.

"Strong, sure. But I’ve never tasted anything like it. It’s excellent."

We get it from a brewery in a village just north of here. They’ve got a name for it, but it’s a mouthful. We just call it Veil Ale.

You’re going to go broke giving the first one away for free, because I can’t see anyone needing a second.

She laughed. You haven’t seen the way the locals drink.

What’s this song? he asked.

You know, I don’t know the name. It’s just track three. Some of my friends recorded it for me. Reminds me of the old country.

Where you from?

Just past the border here.

Canada?

That’s what’s just across the border here, yep.

Funny, I don’t associate this sort of music with Canada.

It’s a big place. There’s a lot of little corners you don’t know about.

He took another sip. Now you’re speaking my language. I’m all about the little corners you don’t know about.

That’s where you find all the best stuff.

Anything worth seeing around here?

Folks come up here for two things. Foliage, and antiquing. You missed the foliage.

Well, seeing as how I’m traveling by bus, I don’t think it’ll come as any surprise that I don’t have the money or the space to be picking up some Shaker furniture.

I hope you like hiking, then. That’s about all that’s left.

Come on. There’s got to be something. He raised his glass. You said there was a brewery, right? They usually have tours.

Hah! Not this one.

He raised an eyebrow. Now that sounded like a laugh with a story behind it.

Oh, it’s nothing. Veil Valley just isn’t the sort of place for tourists.

Lucky for me I’m not a tourist.

Oh, aren’t you?

No, ma’am. I’m... What’s your name?

Remi.

So this is your place?

Can’t fool you, can I?

Well, Remi, my name’s Lester Heath, and I’m a professional raconteur.

That’s a funny accent you’ve got there. I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone pronounce ‘unemployed’ in quite that way.

He raised his glass and cocked a grin. You doubt my oratory skill?

She leaned forward. "You’re a sweet talker, but what are you, twenty?

Twenty-five.

Raconteur’s a word you grow into. Twenty-five isn’t enough years to earn that badge.

You know, it’s funny you say that. When I was in a town called Triumph, down on the tippy-toe of Louisiana, I was talking to a helicopter pilot who said the same thing. He flew those bayou tours...

What followed was five solid minutes of a yarn very well spun. He told a story dripping with southern hospitality and charm, managing to adopt the cadence and tone of a Cajun without ever seeming to mock or imitate. It was like he was channeling a good old boy, and borrowing all of his years of experiences, trials, and flavor for the duration of the story.

... Anyway, that’s the way it looked from up there, he said. Turns out you can get a lot of life out of your years if you get the right point of view.