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Fire and rescue part 2

“You’ve had a drink; you are NOT driving to Lord Patrick’s place in that state!” Lizzy argued, following her boss as he made a beeline to his sporty two-seater roadster. Mortimer was unsteady without his walking stick as it was, now he’d been enjoying grown-up fruit juice he was even more wobbly on his booted feet.

“You don’t understand!” he insisted, slurring his words, “Anar always said that creatures came to him for a reason; that people came into his life for a reason, even. Don’t you see, Lizzy? It’s the same thing happening to me! He said I would have an adventure and I tried to scoff… but it’s happening right now, and I won’t let him down, not this time.”

Lizzy opened the passenger door and ushered her boss carefully inside, rolling her pale eyes, “you’re well gone, aren’t you? What are you on about? Isn’t Anar your young nephew that you hardly even see?” she adjusted the driver seat, for comfort, and turned the key in the ignition.

“Yes! He came here and stayed with me for a while, he was… strange and unhappy; well, he was a teenager so I thought nothing of it. When he was out in the fields, brooding, he came across a lost horse. Ha! Lost – well, so it seemed. Fine black stallion it was; full of spirit, absolutely massive – hooves like dinner plates. Anar was sparing with the details, only asking if it could have a stable to stay until its owner was found. Looking back, I see now it was a turning point for him, his life taking a turn in a direction I could only dream about. This horse was a Nightmare, but not any old magical horse – he was the Prince of Nightmares! Fierce and terrible with an energy I’d never seen, and would you know it: he declared himself Anar’s oldest friend and called my nephew General. I only know of this now, I was completely unaware at the time. I just thought it was nice that he had his own horse to look after. A common interest we could share. If only Anar had said something!”

Lizzy gave him concerned looks, touching the brakes; “are you sure you shouldn’t be in bed, Mortimer?”

“I know,” he moaned, “it’s the ramblings of a madman, but it’s all true! Flamed has come to me, as Destroyer came to Anar. She is my Nightmare, I can feel it in my blood. In my old heart,” he clutched at his chest, leaning back, pained.

The doe panicked, “I’m going to the hospital right now!”

“No! Take a right, down here…” he sat back in the leather chair, his eyes closed. “She called to me… I thought it was the painting finally speaking to me after I’d been chatting to it the past few weeks.”

Lizzy simply shook her head, her long rabbit ears brushing her shoulders. She couldn’t help but accept there was a possibility of this being accurate; she’d just watched a fire-horse ruffle its feathers! Talk of dragons and sorcerers swam in her head. She’d always wondered about the curious old aardvark all alone in his crumbling mansion; nobody visited except for business even though he was kind and gentle, and on dark nights she had often watched as the west wing glowed under the moon, eerie brickwork covered in its unnatural green hue. Everyone knew of the Council of Sorcerers; they were the magical administrators: anyone who wanted to use magic in their work had to apply for an amulet licence and every single use of magic had to be logged accurately for annual review. They hunted down anyone who displayed signs of possessing natural magic, protecting society from their dangerous power by removing it and leaving them healed. Or so they claimed. Truth was, they were never the same again… but you couldn’t criticise the Council; they had power. Royalty, ministers, clergy – they all had Council members in amongst their staff; for protection against danger.

Flamed herself had said she was a dangerous creature… so why was Mortimer oath-bound to save her and her kind? This was a man who would never make a rash decision, who carefully thought through every single thing with wisdom and good breeding, yet right now he was acting like a completely different person, regardless of his insobriety.

Patrick stared in disbelief as they turned the corner to his stables, dropping his wheelbarrow to the muddy ground before jogging up to them as fast as his thick legs would allow, “Lord Mortimer! Goodness gracious! What is the emergency? Is everything quite alright? Here, let me help you out…” he offered a shoulder for the aardvark to cling to, “is it the new pony? I can call the emergency vet!”

“No, no she is fine, my friend. Thriving. I must talk to you about… horse buyers.”

Lizzy popped her head over the top of the roadster and mouthed to the human; ‘he’s had a drink…’

Patrick immediately burst out laughing; “oh, this is just like old times! Legless and rambling, I loved those days of yore. Come, come inside for a sherry.”

Lizzy madly shook her head, crossing her hands rapidly in a cease-and-desist fashion, but she was ignored.

“It’s the 1914 vintage Madeira, strong stuff. We should play cards! I’ll leave my crew to finish up here, this is important,” he winked at the furious rabbit. “You can pop along home, my dear bunny, he’s in good hands! Won’t be the first time he’s slept upside-down in a bathtub!”

She stamped a wellie-clad foot, “I shall do nothing of the sort, Lord Patrick, he’s not… himself right now.”

The man grinned, walking away to the little gate in front of his huge ivy cottage overhung with a quaint thatched roof, “I’ve never seen him better! This is the Mortimer of old, this is! Been going off on one about his family’s mysterious book written in an alien language, and the ancient horned sceptre of doom, has he?”

“What? No, I haven’t heard that one,” she admitted.

“Your choice, beat it or join in,” he snapped, twisting the doorhandle.

She threw up her furry paws, “oh, fine, but only so he can ask you what he needs to.”

Mortimer lounged on the leather sofa, looking around himself distractedly, immediately more relaxed in familiar surroundings.

Lizzy sat down next to him and hissed, “Lord Mortimer? Are you serious? Kept that one quiet all these years.”

“Landed gentry, don’t you know? It was all written down in my ancestor’s days. I’ve never been one to boast or peacock, mind.”

Large tumblers of golden, sweet-smelling liquid were plonked down unceremoniously on dainty lace doilies, “get some of that down you, dear, always entertaining to get you sloshed,” Patrick ordered.

A space was cleared and cards were dealt.

He continued, “so… horse buyers, eh? You’ve never been interested in that side of things before.”

Mortimer took a healthy swig, “very important, dear friend, I assure you. I must know if there is a new horse-buyer on the scene, more money than sense; any old beast, not bloodstock, picked at random you could say.”

“What are we playing?” Lizzie asked, trying to hold three slim, slippery cards in her large paws without dropping them.

“Bastard,” Patrick announced.

“Erm…”

He looked her in the eyes, “you might know it as ‘Stop the bus’. Make a good brag hand with three cards, Aces high, pick up or discard on your turn. Easy, can play it pissed up with a hand behind your back. I speak from experience. Go! Come on, woman.”

“Right…” she sighed, clearly out of her depths, swapping a card out to keep the conversation flowing.

“There is a person who springs to mind, now you say that, Mortimer. Queer fellow. City type. Not what you usually expect to turn up bidding at the auctions.”

Mortimer’s head snapped up as he drew a fresh card, “wears sunglasses, does he?”

“Yes! Yes he does, which struck me as frightfully pretentious seeing at it is hardly the Bahamas here, nor midsummer. Is this guy causing you trouble?” Patrick slid his sleeves up, puffing out his chubby chest. “I’ll knock him into next Tuesday!”

“No, dear,” Mortimer assured sweetly, avoiding eye contact, “I was merely curious, is all.”

“Lies!” the man roared, thumping the table, “you’re keeping secrets from me, aren’t you, Monty? You need another drink. Or three. Then the truth will come out. You don’t turn up here, half sloshed, asking about horse-buyers! Spit it out! Does he have dirt on you? Blackmail??”

Lizzy was really lost now.

“Absolutely not!” Mortimer thundered, “I don’t know him at all. I just know that the horses… should not be with him.”

They exchanged a look.

Patrick lurched at the table, knocking cards, “illegal horse-meat trade?!”

“Perhaps,” the aardvark said quietly.

“So, you haven’t been caught kissing anybody you shouldn’t, then?”

“That was thirty years ago, Patrick!” he blurted, his ears drooping.

The human sat back, tidying the table, “that may be so, but you were always a randy bugger and nobody’s wife was safe.” He drained his glass.

Lizzy’s cheeks flushed. Her boss never struck her as a home-wrecker, even less a randy one.

“I need to save these horses,” Mortimer stated, boldly.

“I’ve been doing that all my life,” Patrick sighed, shaking his head, “but how, Monty? He’s been purchasing legally. You don’t even have anywhere to put them. I had your last stall.”

“If he is what I think he is, this is a perilously dangerous mission that I’ve been entrusted with,” he paused, dramatically, eyes narrowing drunkenly, “an adventure, if you will.”

“Adventure?” Patrick boomed, “oh yes, this IS the Mortimer of old! You have my attention… let me get the bottle.” He stood and turned to Lizzy, “anything you hear here stays here,” he growled.

“In one ear and out the other,” she squeaked.

The bottle thudded onto the table.

“Drink! Drink and tell. What is he, this man? I’ve a rifle in the shed, you know. For pigeons, mostly, but a shot is a shot.”

Mortimer poured, messily, and drank, “I think he may be a dragon.”

“Good Lord! Is this magic business? Please tell me this is magic business!” Lord Patrick was the most animated the rabbit had ever seen him.

“It is. Your pony was special; more special than you will ever know… and the dragon wants her.”

“Ha! She’s not for sale.”

“I don’t think a dragon is going to be stopped by a lack of receipt,” Mortimer slurred.

“I always loved your stories of magic and fantasy, I always hoped to live a Tolkien tale. You would curse and swear every time the Council was mentioned in conversation, ranting about how they cursed your family. I don’t remember half of it because of the drink, but it always sparked something deep inside me. I would dream of that sceptre you told me about. The one in the book. Real life is so grim and hard, but fantasy – oh, what I would give to have a spark of magic in my hand. To ride with elves. To battle dragons!”

Mortimer was sitting upright now, his face open and alive; “really? I always thought you were laughing at me. Getting me drunk so I would say these things and you could tease me.”

“I was the one who stood by your side through thick and thin! I would protect you from your enemies, and you made a few! Badmouthing the Council in high society doesn’t fly, my dear.”

The aardvark stood upright, lurching unsteadily, “I can show you magic, Patrick! I can show you creatures from beyond this world! IF you help me.”

“You know I bloody will! What about the bunny?”

They both looked at her. She shrunk down.

“Lizzy is my designated driver. And my oldest stable-hand. She heard what the Nightmare said and didn’t run home. She stays.”

Patrick nodded, “I’ll trust your judgement. We’ll make an early start to the auction tomorrow, meet this dragon fella. Confront him.”

“No! We mustn’t do that. He’s strong. Very strong. We need to find the horses. Then we can take him down! Magic horses, Patrick. Magic horses!” His grey cheeks were red, he staggered back as he spread his hands to flap.

“It’s true,” Lizzy said, “they fly.”

“Like Perseus astride Pegasus?”

Mortimer nodded, making himself dizzy.

“Sod the gun, I shall bring the family sword! I have gauntlets in the armoury! I shall be a mighty warrior. We will save those magic horses from the evil dragon!”

“In the morning,” Lizzy stated, firmly. “I think you two old codgers need to go to bed before the over-excitement hurts you.”

The morning brought with it a chilly freshness and sore heads as the two older Lords emerged for breakfast and much needed cups of tea. They had not listened to the rabbit’s sage advice and had instead dragged out the backgammon board and malt whiskey, talking of university days and shenanigans that made the doe laugh despite herself. Mortimer had been quite the character in his youth; seducing older ladies – married ones, at that, while being a charming rapscallion. Patrick had loudly and enthusiastically chided him for all the punches he’d had to deliver at after-hours club in the boating house while the aardvark had made a swift exit from the trouble he'd caused. He also blamed Mortimer for the loss of his hair due to stress! Good thing he looked good in a flat-cap.

Sat slumped over steaming mugs, they didn’t look like they were capable of anything more than a failed cholesterol test. Especially Patrick; he’d been a sprinter once, now he wobbled slightly when he walked. At least Mortimer had kept his physique. The aardvark’s hair was white and short, something she’d never seen before; he always had a hat of some sort on his head when he was in the yard. The lines at his face gave away his age, though his steel-grey eyes always had a youthful spark to them that drew you in.

She placed her pale paw gently over his hand, catching his attention, “serves you right,” she smiled, whiskers twitching.

“When I’m with Patrick, I forget my age,” he sighed, “it feels like 1963 all over again and I’m still in halls at Cambridge. How is it the new Millennium in a month? Where does the time go?”

“Don’t ask me,” she said, “if it wasn’t for the horses I’d have lost the will to live a long time ago. They get me up in the morning. I dread retirement, even if I can well afford it.”

“You’re lucky,” Patrick moaned.

They turned their heads as one.

“This house is damn fine, but the upkeep is Hell. My family’s money is all but gone. My children have places of their own, I shall have to sell it. Downsize. It’s a money-sink. I don’t know how you’ve kept Warlock Court going, Monty, even less renovate it. The world is full of New Money, crammed with hedge-fund bankers, old stuffy titles like ours are worthless. Once you’ve sold all your land away you’re not even fit to be called Lord anymore.”

“Last night you were shouting about your armoury!” Lizzy objected as Mortimer squeezed her paw, affectionately.

“It used to be an armoury, now it’s our heirloom broadsword and some gauntlets. I sold everything else off to private collectors. Cottage rewiring was a nightmare, plumbing had to be fixed, thatched roofs are so expensive to upkeep!”

“You should buy a boat!” Mortimer announced, triumphantly. “Sell this place, sell the land, buy a yacht and sail away into the sunset! If it’s good enough for Richard Branson…”

“That was a hot air balloon, I think.”

“Oh, he’s always up to something. That’s how you grow old disgracefully!”

Patrick brightened up, “I’ll think of something, I’ve made it this far without having to work a real job,” he winked. “Now, best get ready, it’s a fair drive to the horse auctions.”

He rose to clear away the plates and mugs, scurrying off to fetch his heraldic weaponry.

Mortimer turned to Lizzy, “thank you for staying with me yesterday. I know I kept telling you to go, but I would have regretted it if you had listened to me.”

“We’ve been through a lot together, haven’t we? Over the years, working your little farm. This is the closest we’ve been in a while, literally,” she added as her whiskers brushed his grey cheek.

“I… I need a good woman in my life,” he stuttered.

“A good woman who doesn’t listen to you?” she purred.

“The best kind!” he leaned forward and touched her fuzzy lips with his own.

“CARPE DIEM!” Patrick roared from the hallway, brandishing his sword in a sweeping arc as the two adults in the kitchen hastily pulled apart and scrambled out of their seats.

The auction barns were already crowded when they arrived; late as they were. It wasn’t horses they were looking for, though, it was one particular person. He would be out of place, a city bigwig surrounded by tweed and Barbour jackets. Sunglasses, too.

Patrick swaggered, his large, barrel chest puffed out as he greeted familiar faces, his old sword swinging at his hip. He looked a tad eccentric, but then the upper class always did.

Mortimer was not used to such hustle and bustle and kept a lower profile, slinking along behind, lamenting the lack of walking cane as he slipped on the muck-strewn concrete flooring of the pen shed.

Lizzy grasped his arm in hers, large bunny feet sturdy in wellington boots.

“Are we really going to follow this dragon home?” she asked again, nervously.

“That’s the plan. Knowing Patrick, he’ll think of something clever in the moment, don’t fret.”

“How does a dragon know if any of these are Nightmares?” she hissed.

“They can see magic, even the faintest of traces. It’s one of their gifts. We just see things moving around or being blown up, but a dragon can actually see the power in action. A Nightmare’s disguise won’t work on them.”

“We saw Flamed,” she reasoned.

He scoffed, “only because she allowed it. They soak up nearby magic and store it away for when it’s needed. But if it’s all gone, that’s when things get dangerous for them. Natural magic is rarer and rarer now the Council are sucking it out of everything; there’s nothing left for the Nightmares to absorb. So, they’re stranded here on our world.”

“They’d use the last of their magic to escape, surely?”

“Think of the risk, spending your last drop and heading into the unknown, defenceless? I’ve seen other worlds and there’s danger everywhere.”

“You… you have?”

“Well… one other world,” he replied dreamily, remembering the glittering arc of rings shimmering across a twin-sunned sky as dawn broke on the Black Planet, taking his breath away in a moment of pure splendour.

“One more than most. You’ll have to tell me about it some time. What’s Patrick up to, now?”

A tall, slim figure stood up ahead, inspecting a pen’s resident closely; almost sniffing it. The stranger had their back to them, but sure enough he was in a tight-fitting Italian-cut linen suit of dusty blue; the kind of colour that you wouldn’t dream of wearing around horse sweat and worse.

Patrick was standing very close to the curious man, which wasn’t hard considering the crowd, but his hands were definitely not where they should be.

“Is he feeling him up?” Lizzy hissed, gobsmacked.

“No! Maybe he’s trying to find a scaly tail. Dragons disguise themselves as well as Nightmares do, so he won’t find one dangling there, daft sod. Patrick! Patrick, old chap, there you are! What have you found?” he asked innocently, purposely ignoring the suited man.”

Patrick barely turned, “don’t like the look of those feet,” he said too loudly, “cracked hooves. Expensive business, shoes and hoof treatment.”

The stranger moved on, taking notes of the pen number.

“It’s him!” Patrick grinned, “wearing Ray-Bans - the poncy idiot. Look at him! Said he stuck out like a sore thumb. Not that anyone else is really noticing.”

“They don’t,” Mortimer reassured his friend, “you were lucky to have spotted him at your earlier visit. They move among us, freely. Collecting. Hoarding.”

“You know so much!”

“I met one,” he boasted, “and afterwards I did a little research of my own.”

“Mortimer Warlock? Is that you? Mortimer! How long has it been?” A beautiful, curly-haired human lady in a fur-trimmed jacket and tight jodhpurs came out of nowhere, embracing the surprised aardvark tightly. “Remember me?”

“Penny! Of course,” he faltered as the stranger turned to face him, not ten feet away, his designer sunglasses dark and mysterious.

He had a strikingly handsome face and a scowl that showed bright teeth. He was VERY interested in Mortimer all of a sudden. His frame stiffened, unmoving, as the crowd moved around him.

“You were picking up your E-Type from the garage and I was having my Lotus serviced, we had a few cheeky dates from that little encounter,” she winked, staying close.

Mortimer stayed silent as the suited stranger bared unnaturally sharp fangs and finally turned away, vanishing into shadows.

“You’re still looking very fine,” she purred, running a manicured hand down his jacket, “I always did like older men.”

Mortimer gulped; He had a few pairs of eyes on him, now.

“What fun we had,” he said with a certain firmness, tactfully lifting her fingers from his clothes. “You are looking well. Buying today?”

“Oh, maybe,” she replied, airily. “I’m actually here for eligible bachelors,” she hissed, “have you… seen any?” It was a loaded question.

“No,” he coughed, “sorry.”

She pouted crimson-stained lips, “darn. I’ll have to keep an eye on the big bidders, then. Sad someone’s snapped you up, though I shouldn’t be surprised. I hope you’re servicing her as well as your Jaguars.”

He blushed, hotly.

Lizzy folded her arms, sniffing pointedly.

“Oh!” the glamorous human lady glanced, coolly, at the long-eared rodent stable-hand, “at it like rabbits, eh, good on you. Must be going. Take care of yourself, now, honey,” she blew him a kiss and vanished back into the crowd.

“Bloody gold-diggers,” blurted Mortimer, hastily, “they stop digging when there’s no gold. She should be with the dragon.”

“Speaking of dragons, did you see him turn on you when she said your name?” Lizzy sounded concerned.

“I did.”

“Me, too,” Patrick interjected, not one to be left out. “I wonder how he knows you?”

The aardvark’s expression soured, “Warlocks and Nightmares, Patrick, Warlocks and Nightmares. Seems the Council aren’t the only ones who associate us. We’ll have to be careful.”

Patrick waved something small and dark under his coat, “No, we won’t, see? I’ve got his wallet. He can’t buy any Nightmares today AND we now know where he lives.”

Lizzy was shocked; “that’s what you were doing,” she gasped.

“What on earth did you think? I always fancied myself as a bit of a rogue,” he winked. “Now, say nothing; we stop and look at a few ponies as we make our way back to my horsebox, don’t want to suddenly disappear and make our dragon friend suspicious.”

“But if he finds out, won’t he zap you with magic or something? You could be in danger!” the rabbit warned.

“And draw the attention of the Council? No, it’ll be claws to the throat,” Mortimer said with a swish of his fingers, leading the way to the car park. “Patrick’s safe for now.”

“Of course I’m safe,” he scoffed, “I’ve three feet of double-handed blade here, ready for action!”

Lizzy tilted her head, “do you know how to use it?”

“I know which is the pointy end!” he huffed. “Hear that? The auction’s starting. Let’s be off.”

Loud shouting filled the pen area behind them and hooves clopped as the first animal was paraded in a ring, the auctioneer taking bids at a rapid rate.

“How long do you think we have?” Lizzy asked, shutting the door to the old van, buckling up.

Patrick turned the key and reversed out of their spot, checking his mirrors, “not long enough. He’d spotted one of your magical horses, I reckon, the way he only had one pen number on his pad. As soon as he realises his wallet is missing he’s bound to make his way home again, thinking he’s left it on the kitchen table. I’ve done that plenty of times.”

“I do hope we’ve got the right guy; it would be awfully embarrassing if there was a mix-up, you know.” Lizzy grabbed the A-Z road map, checking the address on the Drivers Licence from the lifted wallet.

“He’s a dragon, alright,” Mortimer promised, “he’s too perfect… and his teeth are too sharp.”

“Why the sunglasses?” she asked, running a paw over various A-roads to find the shortest route.

“The one part of themselves they cannot disguise,” he explained patiently. “Eyes are a window to the soul, so it is said.”

Lizzy guided Patrick to the right road and smiled, “I guess that’s true; I always thought you had very pretty eyes.”

“Why, thank you… and yours are very striking, seeing as you are a beautiful albino.”

Patrick listened and chuckled to himself, “I honestly expected you to have a few divorces under your belt by now, Monty. How did you escape marriage?”

“I could attract ladies, I just couldn’t keep them,” he sighed. “Or, like Penny, they wanted me for all the wrong reasons. Then my brother met his wife and announced they were having a baby and it robbed me of my destiny.”

Lizzy’s ears flicked as Patrick smacked the steering wheel, “yes! That’s right! That was another one of your rambling favourites… the lifting of the Warlock family curse.”

“Curse?” she asked, “Patrick mentioned that before. What kind of curse?”

“Not really a curse, but ‘imposed magical sanctions’ is a mouthful; our ancient ancestor got into trouble with the Council of Sorcerer’s – he was a powerful mage, they don’t like them – and so our family had their magic taken away for 500 years. The sanctions were due to expire after my brother’s birth. The next child would be named Anarchy: our ancestor’s name, and they would have natural magic in them. I’d tended to the family’s home, I’d kept our ancient artifacts safe, I’d done everything that I was supposed to do… except have a child. That bloody brother of mine took that away from me! Anarchy was my nephew, and he was no mage, we’d waited for 500 years and he was just a regular kid. I cannot accurately articulate my past disappointment at this,” he turned to the window, the landscape passing them by, quiet, his breathing deep. “I was wrong,” he exhaled, “I was so wrong about everything…”

“Right,” Lizzy agreed, “because you said he had a Nightmare come to him, so he couldn’t have been normal.”

“I was so bitter! I almost hated my nephew when he first came to visit, and my anger blinded me to the truth. By the time I realised he did have magic in him, it was too late; my brother had already arranged for him to go down into the Underworld, away from the danger of the Council. I let him go!” he wailed, “all those hundreds of years clinging to the past and I let him go! I’m such a bloody idiot, Patrick!”

The driver nodded, indicating, “true, that. I can’t believe you missed the signs, surely you were looking for them?”

“I thought he’d be flinging fireballs around! My expectations were too high; but Anar’s magic was subtle and he hid it well… too well. The first full-blooded Warlock for half a sodding millennia and he vanished down to the depths of Hell to rot for all eternity.”

Lizzy couldn’t help but interrupt, “you said he was in outer space!”

But Mortimer wasn’t listening; “this is my chance to redeem myself,” he vowed, “I can tell him, ‘I saved the Nightmares from a dragon!’ and he will be proud of me… my ancestor will be proud of me.”

Farmland opened up before them, long lines of dense hedges enclosing green fields as far as the eye could see. Tractors sat at the edges, deep ditches ran down between lush acres and tall oak trees grew to mark land boundaries. Barns broke the horizon; long and low, old and new. Grain silos towered over it all, iron-clad and bulky in their construction. Pretty farmhouses had been carved into the cultivated landscape, winding gravel roadways leading to their front doors. There were stable blocks and jumping arenas here, too, as this was horse country.

“Not far now,” Lizzy promised, patting Mortimers thigh. Her boss’s outburst had expended his energy and he now sat quietly, ears pricked, taking in the scenery. “Just up ahead.”

The dragon’s farm looked the same as all the others; fields and hedges and a farmhouse, except for one curious feature: a massive steel industrial building; long and low and rectangular, completely devoid of any windows or outside light source. A wall of hay was stacked up beside it, sheltered within corrugated iron panels.

“Who keeps horses in a solid steel barn?” Lizzy gasped, “that’s not on. The poor things need fresh air at least!”

Patrick grumbled his displeasure also; admitting he’d seen more than his fair share of cruelty in his days of rescuing horses. Rich people loved to buy them, but quickly grew bored of the bills. He had decided to set up a charity for ex-racehorses, as they were the ones worked hardest until they failed expectations, ending their short, unhappy lives as French cuisine or pet food. It was soul-crushing stuff, but he slept at night knowing he’d done what he could.

A whole barn full of magic horses protected by a dragon just might be pushing his luck, though…