Speedo Down: The Record, #3

By Winnie Winkle

I had a handle on things, then the dragons showed up. 

 

On the average day, I juggle the human and magical worlds with a reasonable amount of skill. Based on the dude exhaling sparks in front of me, today isn't most days.

I'm Cleopatra O'Keefe, a one jigger juggernaut holding the line between the worlds while slinging drinks and using a symbiont book to help me parse these human, magical, and omnipotent miscreants. I'm just one woman, people. Reality much?

 

Dragon-human hookups are impossible, but Sparky is as real as I am. Poseidon and his ratty red speedo are MIA, and the incoming info all points to the dragons. My question is, are dragons the bad guys or are the Olympians pulling my chain? Their track record kinda sucks.

 

The Speedo is down. Crud. Day 6,935 of the weirdest job on the planet.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Winnie Winkle
• Release date: Aug 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781732905085

Winnie Winkle

Winnie Winkle is a fabulous Central Florida broad who swills bourbon, likes dogs and cats, and practices yoga, but not with any degree of grace. Supporting live local music is a pretty big deal to Winnie, so if you pass a gravestone that admonishes, 'Go see the band and hit the tip jar', it's probably hers. But, since she's not dead yet, she'll keep penning fun stuff to rock your reading chair. Winnie has lived in Florida for 30 years and splits her time between South Daytona Shores and the Mount Dora area. She prefers writing beach-side as much as she can because, if we’re baring our souls here, the ocean is a mighty muse and there’s only so much that coffee can do. Winnie writes humorous fiction with a new series, "The Record" releasing three titles in 2021 )Boogie Beach, Slat Shaken, Speedo Down). She also released a literary fiction, "To Walk in the World: Twin Tales of Inception in 2021. Winnie also writes (6 books so far)  paranormal and sci-fi romances for the series "The Worlds or Magic, New Mexico".

Book preview

Chapter One

Sadie stared at me, unblinking.

A baby. The baby of a god. Patra, what in the Universe am I supposed to do in this situation?

To be honest, I’d expected this. I know that mojo, and Sadie’s, well, she’s not your average human. Once Poseidon saw her stick her neck out for me, and for the birth of the Triune, I knew he’d find her irresistible.

When are you due?

Five months.

Let me assure you the baby will arrive on either the new or full moon. You can bank that info.

I picked up my wine, Sadie’s iced tea making far more sense than when I arrived, and continued. And we are both raising demigods, so we’ll help each other. If we don’t have each other’s back by now, we’re doing our lifelong friendship wrong.

Sadie laughed, the pinched look between her brows smoothing into something between resignation and excitement. When the docs told me at twenty-five I could never have a child, I chose the eclectic path and committed to living a life centered on my gifts, focused on helping people. Now, ten years later, a baby! Incredible and a little weird.

Well, he’s definitely that, I snorted. Poseidon is a runaway lust train with zero boundaries.

Sadie’s hazel eyes, framed by dark, straight hair that fell to her waist, held mine. I don’t care if he hooks up with half the human race, Patra. He gave me a gift I thought unattainable. I’m grateful beyond belief.

Tears prickling, I reached over and hugged her; I felt the same way about my daughter, Aegeus. The how and why of her procreation faded to meaningless long ago.

How’s business?

Sadie operated a psychic center and shop in her home in Cassadaga, a tiny historic town thirty minutes from Boogie Beach. Her gift was genuine, and while we’d been friends since high school, remaining in each other’s orbits was a blessing, because I lived an odd life. I ran a bar, well, two bars that lay on the line between the human and magical worlds. Boogie Beach Crab Shack adorned my business license, but The Boogie, as my humans knew the long-standing pier pub and restaurant, and The Boogey, as my magical patrons called it, occupied the same real estate simultaneously above the intersection. Last October, I upended the worlds and I’m still dealing with the fallout.

My role was Keeper, and I recorded the line, a factual account of the intermingling of humans, magicals, and the gods. One of whom dropped a load of his can’t miss seeds into my oldest friend. At least she’s full of anticipation; my former upstairs neighbor was still scratching her head.

Humans just learned they aren’t the top of the food chain, and this little kernel of truth was a tough swallow. Gods and magicals, of course, were aware of the human world. But the release of the third entity, the Vapors, upended their neat manipulative system in one gigantic fight that killed me, I believe, for about a minute. Fortunately, I’m buds with Clep, the god of healing, who did me a total solid.

Efforts to pull the magical and human worlds together, create a new order, and make each race aware of each other were the focus in creating the Triune; that’s my project. Easy peasy, right? With no magic abilities and a tiny shred of Vapor that was my mark that I’m a Keeper, it’s my job to shovel, plead, and cajole an entire world into playing nice. Did I mention I just found out I’m a full-time parent to a demigod daughter aged nine?

So yeah, I don’t sleep much.

Sadie grinned. Business is booming! Now that people are embracing magic, they think psychics give them an edge. I’m turning folks away.

Cool. Does it?

Well, it gives me one; those sessions are two-way streets. I’ve learned tons. For example, a fair percentage hate this turn of events, and a fraction of them read dark. Sadie hugged herself. It’s weird they don’t understand their darkness is because of the comingling of magical and human in their ancestry.

Is there anything I should know?

I’m seeing far more men than usual, a thirty percent bump, but one man had a, in hindsight I am comfortable calling it borderline evil, vibration.

What did he want to discover?

He asked me to read to reveal potential future outcomes. I told him he had confrontation ahead, but his path depended on a series of choices. He seemed satisfied, paid, and left.

Uh oh.

And?

I saw that his way forward involves you, Patra. I think he wants to kill you. His focus hung around you. That came through crystal clear. In his mind, he feels he can control the world, or at least its direction, and that you’re the key.

Well, shit. Once again, my import’s been oversold. Another conversation to have when Poseidon rolled his Speedo clad butt into The Boogey. He’d been MIA for a couple months. Nobody knew when Big Red might make his next appearance, since he was cleaning up a clusterfuck of his own making.

So far, I’ve been hard to kill. I lifted my wine and clinked against her iced herbal tea. Here’s hoping that trend holds.

Drago’s recliner listed, which wasn’t surprising. The entire trailer was in full-fledged defying gravity mode, but it didn’t leak, yet, and the offer to purchase, for ten puny acres in the Ocala National Forest, lay on the beater coffee table in front of the mustard yellow couch that reeked of feet and bean farts. Lots of them.

Four hundred, twenty-five thousand dollars, he grinned at Daisy, the mid-sized mutt of a long ago girlfriend. She stomped off and left him and the dog, hauling ass out of the forest after a memorable full moon.

Not everybody’s cut out for forest life, girl, he’d told the panting dog as the woman’s Taurus bumped along the dirt drive doing forty. But that was one helluva moon. A-roooo!

Drago picked up the contract and rubbed under Daisy’s chin; her tail thumped and sand bounced off the floor in enthusiastic counterpoint.

Lots of steaks for me, and hell, you can eat the good kibble, plus we got a shot at a better trailer someplace. Sweet deal, considering the state of the world. Daisy girl, that’s twice, maybe three times more than this patch is worth. I’m not a stupid man. Where’d those wolf people get their money? Bet there’s a sight more than this here paper says.

Drago grabbed a Busch beer and sucked down half, reading through the fine print and nodding, satisfied.

And that blond chick, the Keeper, who the hell died and made her queen? She’s a bartender. Shit. He reached into the warm twelve pack carton beside the chair and pulled the next to last can. A road trip’s happening, girl. And once this money hits, I’m thinking we’ll grab us one of those motels my biker buddy Rooster told me about on A1A and see what’s what for ourselves.

Daisy woofed low.

Yup, I know. I heard’em. They’re coming for this contract. I always hear’em, that’s why we do OK in the forest.

A quick double knock sounded on the door. Drago shifted his weight and sidestepped out of the recliner, whose mechanism for the foot part kicked off a year back.

Yeah?

I’m here to pick up the paperwork, Mr. Drago.

Hang on.

Daisy’s hackles were sky high, and a low growl rumbled through the trailer. Drago scritched the pen across the paper and rolled it into a tube.

If ya eat my dog, the deal’s off.

Understood.

Drago eased the door open three inches while keeping Daisy pinned with one skinny leg. A guttural snarl answered her bark; with a whine, she backed up and crawled behind the couch.

I wrote that on the paperwork. Y’all keep off my dog and me. Hey you! Drago gestured at the wolf on his tailgate. Get your furry butt off my truck. This ain’t your place, yet.

The wolf in human form, dressed in jeans, work boots, and a denim shirt, spun toward the truck, unleashing a snarl of displeasure that shook Drago, and he was used to it. The smaller wolf hunkered, then leapt over the truck’s rail and shifted, resembling a pissed off skater boi, sans board.

Please accept my apologies for my son’s manners. The young man crossed his arms. You. Wait for me at the edge of the yard. What were you thinking?

The wolf flicked his gaze to the paper as Drago passed it, noticing his steady hand before lifting his eyes to Drago’s. Thank you, Mr. Drago. Our lawyer will be in touch to close the transaction and confirm your wire transfer in two weeks. Be prepared to vacate immediately. Overstaying would be unwise.

We’ll be ready.

The only thing in the entire dump he wanted was his books. Along both sides of the single-wide, bookcases, stuffed with volumes, ran from floor to ceiling. Occult, paranormal, supernatural, mythology, and the just plain weird filled the shelves.

Drago’s fingers ran over the spines, pulling every title he thought he’d need to figure out how the hell human beings ended up as roadkill in this new, unappreciated world order. These he tucked into two suitcases. In a big tote, he stuck Daisy’s bowls, a second stack of books, his guns, and his other jeans.

Fuck the rest of it; I’ll buy new shit. Those wolves can burn this trailer to the ground. For the other books, I’ll hit the dumpster behind Publix and grab banana boxes. We just leveled up, old girl. He scratched under her chin, calming her back to her normal, happy self. If I figure out this Keeper chick, might be there’s more for ol’ Drago’n Daisy. Might be way more than a bit. Time to get ours.

Chapter Two

Awisp of chartreuse mist spiraled from the caldron floating over a fire of tangerine and orchid toned flames. Twelve faces peered at the smoke as it writhed, forming pictures, fading and reforming anew. An ancient practice of prediction, the outcomes alterable, but the witches’ expressions, grim, lent an air of concern to the firefly punctuated night.

I knew this was too easy, Glenna mumbled, adding crumbs of ochre tinted dust into the roiling water. The smoke’s color shifted as a new set of pictures emerged.

Well, that outcome sucks, Chelsea agreed, staring at the result. Try the indigo.

Glenna cut her eyes as the remaining witches cocked their heads to the right.

Indigo! Chelsea shrieked. I need a better option.

Fine, Glenna replied, but it will spoil the pot. Last chances are just that.

The crumbs of indigo hit the water and a panoramic smoke picture rose from the rim and revolved. A battle, and death, but also a single thin path with a sunrise lifting behind the trees.

One shot, Chelsea murmured. At least we have a chance.

Would you, Glenna leaned close, care to make a wager?

A pair of pelicans flapped through the windows of The Boogey, shifting and thudding in an uncoordinated heap. Unusual. My boys were dorks, but in flight, handsome.

Not your best landings. Molting, gentlemen?

Time to shine for the hens, Patra, Pook replied, gazing at the ratty feathers blowing across The Boogey’s floor.

Ha-ha squawk! Bingo laughed. New feathers are awesome. Sleeked up, a couple of neck waggles, and it’s on, baby. Even Pook might get lucky.

Anchovy crisps are in stock again, but you have to sweep up your mess first, I interjected, hoping to prevent the brawl, but they were already rolling on the floor, punching. How many eggs can y’all fertilize?

Bingo hopped off the wooden floor and shook himself. I have 500 offspring on the Halifax River.

Pook grunted. And they’re scrawny. I may have fewer, but they are handsome as Hades.

Death is smokin’ hot.

Can they shift? I asked, not caring but wanting the truce to hold.

None have so far. Bingo slid into his seat and pulled the bowl of crisps toward him, flipping one into his mouth.

It can’t happen, Patra. Shifters need both partners to be magical, Pook added.

Which made sense. If offspring shifted, discoveries of human infants on the islands would make the news. I tapped their fish ales and headed to the bathroom for the broom, setting it between them as a mute reminder that chasing feathers wasn’t my thing.

A heavy step, and I swung around, hoping for a red Speedo. Instead, Clep, the god of healing, and who was mega hot in his own right, slid onto a stool and drummed his fingers on the bar.

The usual?

A glass of wine will do, Keeper. Red.

I set it in front of him and he waved, stopping time for everyone but us. Bingo and Pook, mouths open and full of crisps, froze in mid-chew.

Something on your mind?

As a rule, I don’t initiate with gods, but this felt deliberate.

Clep sipped. For four Earth days, Poseidon’s signature hasn’t registered. If the order within the sea languishes, it could become a problem for humans.

It’d be trouble for everybody.

In time. The sailors will feel the wrath first.

I cocked my head and raised an eyebrow. An immortal, and one of the big three is missing? Of course that affects the entire Triune. Where is Nereus?

The father of the sea is also undetectable.

Clep rubbed his jaw and held my gaze. I suggest you record our conversation and then have a chat with the book. From every angle, Poseidon had his shit together and the issues with the mer improved. Now, I’m not so sure.

He drained his wine and stood. I saw Gaia on the horizon’s edge. I do not believe she’s involved, but my certainty on what’s happening ends there.

He waved, and Pook and Bingo reanimated. Clean up your feathers. The Keeper’s purpose isn’t to sweep your plumage, in case you’ve forgotten.

Pook blinked as I grinned. Gods never addressed goofballs like pelican shifters when drinking in The Boogey. Memorable day for the boys.

Bingo snatched the broom and bowed. Sorry, Asclepius. Pook’s having a rough molt.

Clep faded as Pook’s punch landed and I pinched my nose. Tonight had every appearance of an eternity punctuated with alcohol.

Where the hell was Poseidon? Immortals don’t vanish off the face of the Earth.

I need to consult the record, I announced, topping off their ales. Can you manage not to break The Boogey while I’m in my office?

Nothing bothers a pelican for long; they were deep into a mock fight with a fishing rod and the broom when I palmed the door and plunked into my chair.

For the past month, my studies revolved around the Vapors, a peaceful non-corporeal entity that rivaled Chaos in terms of age, meaning they were there from the beginning. Vapors created the record, and I discovered they had a language and made entries.

Keepers before me weren’t aware this knowledge lived in the book’s pages. I was pushing hard to study and understand what they recorded, making up for lost time, but it was a tough chew.

Tough, because the Vapors didn’t communicate in the same fashion as humans or magicals. Instead, they used emotions to convey entire lines of thought. Humanity had half a chance to learn this because human beings were messy, dramatic, and at their core, emotional.

Magicals, whose minds followed logic and order and bound themselves with a complex system of lore, law, and vows, were screwed. My bestie Chelsea, a High Priestess, over how many covens I wasn’t sure, attacked learning the Vapors language with a single-mindedness I admired, but she struggled. A lot.

Besting her at an intellectual task was rare and a definite perk, if I’m being honest. But it’s not meant in a bitchy way. Chels is demanding regarding mastery. Magicals value knowledge and it frustrated the crap out of her she couldn’t find the key to unlock their language.

I placed my palm on the cupboard; it swung open, and I pulled the book. Ancient, scented with sea and time, and filled with entries by centuries of Keepers, it was a chronological record of the line’s history, and a shared relationship of sorts. Flipped open to a set of blank pages, I chewed my thumb and pondered what to ask.

Has an immortal ever gone missing?

The entry rose, filling the page. From the penmanship, I’d guess late 1600s.

The line falters in the wake of yet another trial to end a witch. It pains the soul to see