Sound impossible? Think again. Malone had done it before; Abaddon, Pollita, and Persephone were proof of that. Their eggs had been dormant and might have remained so forever if not for the scientist meddling with nature. However, the man needed to stop hatching dragons. Abaddon enjoyed being the only living male, especially since he had the two females, born an ocean apart, vying for his attention. How to choose? Each had their allure. Abaddon had been conversing with them both via video conference, flirting as well, for while a dragon’s main purpose might be to dominate the world, the urge to procreate remained strong, even as those hatchlings would provide competition for his destiny as King of the World. A lofty goal that wouldn’t be easy to achieve.

Humans had flourished since Abaddon’s kind last roamed the skies. Billions of them littered the Earth, and they’d evolved since the days of swords and arrows. Guns, bombs, fighter jets that could launch missiles, along with technology that watched the skies, spelled danger for dragons. That danger was why Abaddon had yet to leave his lair to visit the lovely Pollita and Persephone.

Leo—the rich human who’d thought once upon a time he could own a dragon but had since become a loyal servant—seemed to think there might be a way to scramble Abaddon’s presence when he soared the skies. Something about causing a glitch in the radars monitoring for objects in airspace.

Maddox, whom many called Mads, entered, a burly protector who’d been aiding Abaddon greatly since his hatching.

“Hey, big fella. Those horns are coming in nicely, and is it me, or are you outgrowing this space?” Mads stated.

“My last molt increased my girth substantially,” Abaddon agreed. “The new bison herds have proven to be useful.” And delicious.

“About that, what did we say about hunting before dark?” Mads chided, showing no respect for Abaddon’s superiority. Abaddon allowed it because his protector needed leeway to properly ensure Abaddon’s safety.

“There is no one to see me for miles around.”

“You can’t assume that. It would only take one credible video for you to be in danger. As it is, Malone’s escape could be a problem if he decides to blab to the wrong people.”

“As if the Canadian government has the resources to hunt one as great as me,” Abaddon scoffed. Now, if he were south of the border, there might be an issue. The American military did have the weapons and troops to take on a dragon. But Canada? Half their jets couldn’t leave the ground due to aging and poor maintenance.

“I’m more worried about him getting in the ear of some billionaires who would want the prestige of owning your ass. They have the money to hire mercenaries.”

“I have my own wealth to counter them.” When Leo realized the errors of his ways, he’d bequeathed his fortune to Abaddon, giving him a sizeable hoard, which he’d been growing via something called investing.

“Wealth that will drain quickly if we have to hire more people and buy expensive defense systems. Not to mention, we have to be careful not to be too visibly aggressive because that will bring notice and might trigger a concentrated effort to extract or exterminate you.”

“I’d like to see anyone try,” Abaddon growled. “I am not some simple creature to be captured and caged.”

“Agreed, so use your head for something other than a thing to hold your horns,” Mads rebuked. “Fly only after dark, at least until Leo gets the aerial and cell phone scramblers in place.”

Ah, yes. Leo had mentioned something about equipping Abaddon with a device to emit a signal that would render electronics useless. The biggest issue? Turning it off upon his return so it didn’t fry the electronics in Abaddon’s home.

“I won’t hunt until the sun sets,” Abaddon grudgingly agreed. “But you do realize that this time of the year, sunset happens around nine o’clock?”

“I’m sure your two girlfriends can keep you busy while you wait,” was Mads dry reply.

“Jealous?”

“Hell no. I’ve got my hands full with Pip.”

Pip, Abaddon’s lovely first and favorite servant. She’d been hard to train and, to this day, still remained mouthy, but Abaddon stayed fond of her.

“Where is she? She’s not come by to gaze upon my greatness in hours.” A dragon could never be admired too much.

“She’s following up on a lead. Something about Scotland and a possible dragon sighting.”

The news stiffened Abaddon’s neck. “Male or female?”

“Unknown. Might not even be a dragon. The witness didn’t capture any actual footage, just claims to have seen some kind of dragon-like beast in the sky carrying something in its claws.”

“Scotland… Isn’t that the place with the Loch Ness Monster?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“No reason.” But Abaddon did wonder if perhaps it might be a dragon with an affinity for water. That wouldn’t be good. A water-breathing rival could douse Abaddon’s mighty flame. Add in the fact that this Loch Ness Monster had been around for hundreds of years, its age and size would make it difficult to beat in a fight.

A fair fight, that was. Abaddon’s hoard had the funds to buy weapons, even a bomb big enough to, say, remove a pesky threat to his quest for world domination.

“Do you think Malone’s going to stay in Vegas?” Mads asked, staring at his phone screen.

“Only if he thinks there’s an egg.”

“Leo’s going to be monitoring the seismic reports for that area, and it goes without saying, if there’s any hint of a volcano waking, Pip and I will be on the next flight out.”

“Excellent. Remember, if you do find a hatchling, you’re to bring it to me”—so Abaddon could attempt to brainwash it into obeying his obvious superiority—“And no killing Malone.”

Abaddon wanted that pleasure for himself.

Chapter 1

A week earlier…

The black sand radiated heat, making me glad I wore thick-soled shoes. Burns weren’t the only peril on this beach. Given its relative newness, formed by a volcanic eruption a few years ago, you had to watch for small bits of obsidian, sharp bits of lava turned glass, that would slice through even the toughest calloused feet.

Tutu, my grandfather, complained—something he did often—that I wasted time hunting for obsidian at the beach. He preferred paying a visit to Puu Waawaa to acquire the black glass we used in our shop. However, I chose to drive the two hours, not only to search for interesting remnants from the volcano, but because it was pretty.

Despite living on the Big Island, part of the Hawaiian chain in the Pacific Ocean, I didn’t often get a chance to lounge on the beach. Since Tutu refused to hire any help—Why would I overpay some lazy bums?—it fell on me to help him create custom objects from the obsidian we scavenged. Furniture, household items, even decorative pieces, the art of crafting had been passed down through our family for generations. As the only remaining Mahelona of my line, it fell on me to carry on the tradition—whether I liked it or not.

Most days, I didn’t mind. There was a certain satisfaction in the intricate process involved in melting the volcanic glass and reshaping it to take the form we desired. Or in the carving of interesting pieces to bring out the hidden beauty in the obsidian. But as my grandfather aged, more and more tasks fell on me, leaving little personal time—and absolutely no dating life.

Probably for the best. I didn’t have a great track record when it came to men. Surfer boys who seemed to not understand the concept of monogamy. Tourists looking for a vacation fling. Then there were those who expected me to abandon my grandfather and our family business to become a housewife, barefoot and pregnant. My grandmother used to tell me the right man would come along one day. At the ripe age of thirty-three, I kind of wished he’d hurry the heck up.

I stumbled, the grains not depressing underfoot as expected. As my balance wavered, my arms flailed and did nothing to stop me from hitting the ground, satchel rattling by my side. My only saving grace, other than the soft landing—no one saw me fall. I’d hate for some stranger to record me being clumsy and post it online. Becoming a viral meme did not appeal in the least.

The toe of my foot poked at the sandy hump I’d tripped on, revealing a surprisingly large hunk of glossy black. Jackpot.

My knees dug into the ground as I scooped the sand out from around the obsidian, loosening it enough I could pluck my prize. The hefty, football-sized hunk made me smile. Tutu would be hard-pressed to complain about my find. I slid it into my satchel, along with the smaller pieces I’d collected.

Time to head back. I’d promised my grandfather I’d be present when he met with our newest client at four. Some rich dude, living in the prestigious Kukio community, who wanted some custom pieces for his newly built home. Bloody outsider. Hawaii had a dearth of them, rich folks who bought up the nicest land and built ostentatious places, while the true natives of the islands toiled to survive. Although, some would scoff at me calling myself native due to my half blood. Mom had a fling with a guy who’d visited for a few months on his summer break to surf and play. When he left, he didn’t bother giving mom any contact info. After all, they’d both been fully aware their affair wouldn’t last. Only Mom ended up with a constant reminder.

Me.

Not that she ever resented having me. Mom loved me, as did my grandparents—even my constantly harping grandfather. All four of us lived together quite happily until tragedy struck. It began with my mother getting caught in a riptide and washed out to sea. The tides never brought her body ashore, which meant nine-year-old me held out hope for years she might come back. Hint, she didn’t.

A few years later, grandmother developed the Big C. She hid her illness until my high school graduation. But soon after… Let’s just say things went downhill fast. The next few years proved tough, as the grief of losing the love of his life made Tutu, already an ornery fellow, even more grumpy. The only time he seemed content? When he worked, and, even then, he grumbled quite a bit.

As for me? Not happy or unhappy, just kind of meh. My life never changed. Wake up. Work. Sleep. Repeat. At times I thought of running away and starting over; however, I couldn’t leave Tutu alone. Losing me would kill him.

The car ride back to the shop proved scenic and took a little over two hours since an accident caused a delay. As I neared the huge metal hangar we used as a workshop, set several yards from our little house painted a bright blue, I noticed a luxury sedan parked out front. Our client had already arrived. A glance at the clock showed him early, but Tutu likely would find a reason to harangue me for being late. Sigh.

While I would have liked to freshen up, I thought it best to skip it to not antagonize Tutu further. It wasn’t as if I cared what a client thought of my appearance, messy ponytail, ragged jeans shorts, a T-shirt so faded even I didn’t remember what it used to say.

Upon entering the workshop, I dropped my satchel on a scarred metal table where we sorted the obsidian into piles depending on what we planned to use the pieces for. Rounded pebble-like bits for jewelry and adornment. Slivers and mishappen chunks for melting. Bigger pieces for possible sculpting.

The murmur of male voices drew me toward the back, where we kept our wood-fired kiln. While there were other more modern ways of melting obsidian into liquid glass, our kiln achieved high enough temperatures to do the trick—and my grandfather, being cheap, saw no point in paying to upgrade.

Tutu gestured with his hands as he explained our process to someone dwarfed by my grandfather’s girth and height. Grandfather did enjoy his sweet rolls. Even if he didn’t, he would have still towered over most folks.

“…and then, depending on what you want, we’ll pour the liquid obsidian into molds or, in the case of a tabletop, we’ll make it into a sheet to fit right on top of your reclaimed wood.”

“I browsed some of your finished pieces on your website. Impressive work.” The deep male voice could have been any age.

“Do you know what you want? You’d mentioned wanting some accent pieces for your home,” Tutu asked as I reached his side.

The client, rather than reply, settled his gaze on me. “You must be the granddaughter Keanu mentioned.” My grandfather, Keanu Mahelona, hated being called Mister Mahelona. Said it made him feel old, funny considering his ripe age of sixty-two.

“Hi, I’m Iolana.” I held out my hand, and he didn’t hesitate to grasp it, his grip firm but not overly long. Still, I tingled at the touch. Probably because I rarely came into physical contact with anyone.

The man smiled, showing perfectly white teeth. “Apollo Jameson. Nice to meet you.”

I almost giggled at his name. Who called their kid Apollo?

As Mr. Jameson released my hand, I studied him. Tall, almost as tall as my grandfather, who stood a whopping six foot five, but Mr. Jameson didn’t have a keg of excess around his middle. He appeared fit. Tanned and toned arms peeked from his short-sleeve button-up. No pudge hung over the waistband of his pants, but that didn’t mean he sported any abs. His hair, a lustrous mahogany, had a lot of gray speckling it. The slight creasing at the corners of his eyes and bracketing his mouth put him likely in his forties. Handsome, if you could get past the rich, outsider thing. I wouldn’t, and not just because we belonged to two different classes. I would never date anyone who hired us.

“About time you showed up,” Tutu grumbled.

“I was delayed by traffic,” I stated, rather than point out Jameson had arrived early. “At least I didn’t miss the entire tour.” Tutu did that to showcase the expensive tools and the intricacy of what we did. Despite the work and detail that went into every piece, people still balked at our prices, though.

“Fascinating process,” Jameson stated in a deep timbre that brought a shiver. “I’m very interested in acquiring some unique pieces. Your grandfather mentioned you’re quite talented with creating patterns in the glass before it cools.”

“Yes. Depending on what you prefer, we make the obsidian more black, gray, red, or brown by adding minerals. If you want texture, bubbles are an option that will give it a frothy appearance.”

“I’ll have to see an examples to decide. You mentioned having a few pieces I can look at.” Jameson directed the last past at my grandfather.

Tutu nodded. “In the house. We don’t have them on display since it’s furniture we use.”

Rather than complain once more about my grandfather letting strangers traipse through our personal space, I smiled.

“While you show Mr. Jameson the samples, I’m going to begin sorting my beach finds.” I headed away from them and opened my satchel. I hefted out the big rock first, putting it aside before dumping the remaining bits of obsidian onto the counter.

As Tutu and Jameson passed by, the latter paused. “That’s a large piece compared to the others.”

“Found it on Kaimu Beach. Surprising, since black sand mostly spits up shards.”

“Will you use it for melting, or will this become one of your carved pieces?” Jameson asked.

My shoulders rolled. “Don’t know yet.”

“Melt,” Tutu declared. “A big piece like that would nicely cover a tabletop.”

“Guess we have our answer,” was my wry reply.

“Let’s go see those samples.” Tutu marched off, the client in his wake.

As the door shut behind them, I made a face. Guess I wouldn’t be chiseling a shape out of the rock. Pity. Something about it called to me.

Despite Tutu’s decree, I held off throwing the bigger hunk into the kiln, just in case the client decided he wanted it intact for something more interesting than a glossy surface. Just please don’t let him ask for a dildo. I’d never been more traumatized than by the lady who paid an exorbitant amount for one with a specific width and length. I swear my cheeks burned red the entire time I carefully shaved and polished the glass so it could be used without harm. Used in ways that our volcano goddess probably didn’t approve of.

I’d sorted my finds into piles by the time Tutu returned with Jameson, this time heading for the office, likely to hammer out details—and for some reason, I watched. Blame his snug trousers for framing his ass nicely. Look at me, obviously starved for companionship.

By the time they emerged, I was prying open a crate holding some furniture handcrafted by a local carpenter. We’d add some finishing obsidian touches and put them up for sale on our website. Tutu often hinted I should date Akamu, the guy who built the pieces we used. My less-than-subtle grandfather hinted it would be practical to bring the man into our family because then we’d get the furniture at a discount and be able to sell it for even more profit.

Funny how my grandfather married for love, but with me, he had a mercenary outlook when it came to who I should settle down with. The fact Akamu stood an inch shorter than me and had a belly almost as wide apparently shouldn’t matter. Had the man any kind of personality and didn’t bray like a donkey when he laughed, I could have looked past his appearance—or put him on a diet. However, I couldn’t stand to be in Akamu’s presence more than a few minutes before I wanted to gag him. My disinterest in the man didn’t stop Tutu from bugging. I swear, the next time he brought up me dating the carpenter, I’d bring home the most annoying surfer—the kind who dropped the word dude every other sentence—just to see the steam coming out of his ears.

The office door opened, and the men exited, murmuring before shaking hands.

“I’ll be in touch.” Jameson declared as he headed for the exit, only to pause before he passed me.

“Nice chair and table,” he remarked, running his hands on the smooth but not yet varnished surface.

“Akamu is talented, and the wood he uses is locally sourced.” See, I could play the selling game when required.

“Your grandfather already sold me on his work. I look forward to seeing the finished product.”

“What are you getting?” I asked to be polite.

“Coffee table, matching side ones, and possibly a vase. Just debating on if I want to mix in some copper or manganese.”

“You can’t go wrong with either. Both will give it a pop of reddish brown, and, depending on other minerals present in the obsidian, we could end up with other hues. I take it you understand we can't always promise a perfectly even black surface?” Extracting elements from the melted glass proved more work than it was worth. Personally, I liked my obsidian to have swirls of color.

“That’s part of what will make them unique. I’ll be browsing your gallery of past work to see what I prefer.”

“Can’t wait to get started,” I stated with the fake brightness clients expected—but I didn’t feel. As if I cared what he liked. I should also add, I hated doing small talk.

“I’ll let you get back to what you’re doing. Have a good day.”

I rolled my eyes as Jameson left. I swear, when I had to fully take over, I’d hire someone to deal with the client aspect.

A beaming Tutu approached; it could only mean one thing.

“How much did you overcharge?” The richer the patron, the higher the bill.

“Enough to get the water cistern replaced.” Tutu rubbed his hands. “We’re going to need more obsidian than what you collected today, though. I’m going to put a call in to Kai and see if he’s in the mood to scavenge. In the meantime, get the kiln going and melt down what you grabbed today.”

“All of it? I thought the big piece might make an interesting sculpture.” I attempted to save it and failed.

“Throw it in, too. Sculptures take you too long, and they’re harder to sell.”

I bit my tongue rather than point out his hefty price tags caused the delay. In Tutu’s defense, while the sale might not happen quick, my grandfather did get what he wanted eventually. “You sure you want me melting it already? Akamu won’t have the furniture ready that quick.”

“Actually, he’s sitting on the perfect pieces. He had a client die after having already paid the commission. It’s been six months and it doesn’t look like any of the heirs are coming to collect.”

Meaning Tutu got the pieces at a discount and Akamu ended up increasing his profit.

“I’ll get the kiln going and toss in the pieces. Should be ready to start pouring sometime tomorrow.” Obsidian could be finicky in how quickly it melted. Sometimes it happened quick; other times, it could take a day or more. It depended on the type of volcanic glass and size of the pieces. Not to mention, specific special additives, a secret family recipe that was the key to our being able to melt, pour, and shape the natural rock.

“I’m going to grab us some loco moco and manapua from Mahi’s Bar to celebrate.”

While Tutu waddled off to fetch us his favorite dinner—mine too, actually, I did love manapua—I fired up the kiln and tossed in the obsidian chips I’d collected. I did find myself hesitating before throwing in the big football-sized rock, though. I could have totally made it into something unique, but Tutu was the boss, and I didn’t want to fight. Besides, there’d be other nice pieces to carve. New caches of obsidian were constantly being uncovered. Maybe I’d hit Kaimu Beach again sooner than later to see if I could find more.

While the kiln did its thing, the chimney, which didn’t extend fully through the ceiling because Tutu was too cheap to extend it, began heating up. The hangar would be stupidly hot by tomorrow, but I’d long ago gotten used to the elevated temperatures. I washed up, and by the time I finished, Tutu returned with our dinner. We enjoyed our meal in front of the television, watching a nature documentary. At ten, off to bed I went.

In the morning, after a quick breakfast of fruit and coffee, I headed into the hangar to check on the melting progress. The quartz viewing glass in the kiln let me see that while the little bits had turned to liquid, the big hunk remained mostly intact. Not surprising. Larger pieces always took longer. I should have broken it up to make it melt faster, but I’d hoped to get away with skipping it.

I left the kiln running, but before I could tackle anything else, the furniture arrived, delivered by Akamu himself. One hundred percent Tutu’s doing, and he used the opportunity to try and sell me on the carpenter.

“Not many men who can run a successful business,” grandfather murmured as Akamu strained to lift the first table from his truck.

“I agree. It’s surprising given all the varnish he sniffed over the years.”

Tutu’s lips pressed into a thin line. “A woman should have a strong man to care for her.”

“I’d add she probably should choose one who doesn’t look like he’ll drop dead of a heart attack,” I murmured as a huffing and sweating Akamu dropped his load and treaded back outside to get the next piece.

“You aren’t getting any younger.”

“Agreed. Maybe if you didn’t work me so hard I’d have time to date,” was my tart retort.

“All the more reason to find a man in the same industry. You can spend time together at work.”

Kill me now.

“I’m going to get started on Jameson’s stuff,” I muttered, stalking off.

Since I had enough liquid obsidian for one of the tops for the side tables, I turned on the torch that would keep the glass liquid and released the drain cover, allowing the molten glass to empty out. The bubbling fluid spread across the metal surface I’d prepared—one with the same dimensions as the table—and I had to quickly spread and smooth before it cooled too much. Then I rolled the cart holding it into our large cooling kiln that received heat from the furnace and allowed our bigger pieces to cool slowly so as to avoid thermal shock.

As I cleaned up, I checked periodically on the big rock in the kiln, which appeared to have melted off its outer layer, leaving behind a smooth black sphere that kind of reminded me of an egg. Unusual.

We had some fresh-caught fish for dinner, pan fried in butter with seared pineapple and rice. After, I spent the evening reading in the lanai as Tutu attended his weekly poker night with his boys—a bunch of grumpy old men who spent most of the game talking about the good ‘ol days.

The next morning, I entered the workshop and headed for the kiln. Surely by now the hunk had melted.

I peeked in and frowned. The large lump of obsidian had finally melted, but it turned out to not be pure. Whatever element it contained left behind gray, white, and orange swirls.

The liquid glass could still be used, just not with the new client’s tables. He’d chosen to not add any elements and requested only some frothing in a spiraling design. A bit more work, but I’d wager Tutu increased the price, which would explain his smile when he told me. What would irritate my grandfather? The delay in completing the project until a batch of obsidian arrived. Couldn’t be helped, given the colorful mess in the kiln—which wouldn’t go to waste.

Luckily, I had a few molds, my go-to when I had a contaminated batch of liquid glass. I chose a bowl popular with tourists that would likely sell quick.

When the glass had cooled enough for me to move it off the mold, I attached a metal punty and gently removed it, then placed it carefully into the cooling portion of the furnace. Not as hot as the area with the crucible, but hot enough it would allow the obsidian to come to room temperature without developing stress fractures from uneven cooling. As I shut the kiln, a noise overhead had me craning. Despite the shadows, I caught a glimpse of something moving along one of the ceiling cross beams that we used to hang fans and lights from. Don’t tell me another mongoose had gotten inside. Pesky buggers had been introduced to Hawaii to control the rats, only they ended up multiplying due to a lack of true predators. While harmless, I didn’t need one dropping poop or walking across a drying surface.

“I’d suggest you vacate,” I muttered as I left to fetch a trap.