On My Way Read online

  Contents

  Introduction

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  25. Interlude: No, it’s not quite over

  Epilogue

  Copyright © 2020, Eve Langlais

  Cover Art Dreams2Media © 2020

  Produced in Canada

  Published by Eve Langlais ~ www.EveLanglais.com

  eBook ISBN: 9781 177 384 149 6

  Print ISBN: 978 177 384 150 2

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  This is a work of fiction and the characters, events and dialogue found within the story are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, either living or deceased, is completely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or shared in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including but not limited to digital copying, file sharing, audio recording, email, photocopying, and printing without permission in writing from the author.

  Introduction

  I am officially a divorcee who is muddling through a midlife crisis. As if being single in my forties isn’t traumatizing enough, my ex tried to kill me, my best friend thinks orcs are coming after us, the town is convinced I’m a witch, and my daughter moved back in with me.

  These last few months have been a hectic ride, and the fun isn’t over yet. I’m in dire need of a job, so the smart thing would be to apply for some mind-numbing work. Something easy where all you have to do is show up. The bills must be paid.

  Instead, I’ve decided to go out on a scary limb and open my own shop.

  What was I thinking?

  As if I am not stressing enough, I am having a string of horrid luck. Attempted murder. Assault. Vandalism. Someone is trying to mess up my life.

  And I’m so done with it.

  I’ve been given a second chance. I am on my way to becoming a happier, healthier me, and I am not letting anyone screw that up.

  But what am I supposed to do when the line between reality and the impossible starts to blur? Do I see a doctor for medication or begin to accept that, just maybe, magic does exist? And would somebody please find my ex-husband? He’s escaped jail and is apparently threatening to kill me again.

  * * *

  #PWF

  For more info and books see, EveLanglais.com

  Prologue

  On December fourteenth, Canadian Corrections confirmed that Martin Dunrobin— currently being held without bail for attempted murder, assault, and arson—had escaped from a minimum-security prison in Southern Ontario. Per a news release, Mr. Dunrobin failed to appear during a head count, leading prison staff to discover the inmate was no longer contained within the facility. A search for his whereabouts is underway.

  Martin Dunrobin was arrested several months ago in connection with numerous arsons, including that of his own home. At the time, Naomi Rousseau, his ex-wife, was living inside the home. While Mr. Dunrobin claims he never intended any harm, the prosecution is arguing that this was a murder attempt. After the fire that destroyed their family home, Ms. Rousseau moved away. Mr. Dunrobin is alleged to have followed his ex-wife to Canada, where he proceeded to stalk, harass, and even vandalize local businesses she happened to be a patron of. Mr. Dunrobin was arrested by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and deemed a danger to reoffend. Bail was denied while he waits for his court date.

  At this time, it is not known how Mr. Dunrobin managed to escape; however, authorities are concerned about his current state of mind. A prison guard, who wished to remain anonymous, spoke of horrible things written on Mr. Dunrobin’s cell walls. In his words, “Very sick shit.” The escaped prisoner is considered to be armed and dangerous.

  If you think you’ve seen Martin Dunrobin, do not engage. Please lock your doors and contact your local law enforcement.

  1

  The massive dragon head rose from the water, the ridges giving it a menacing shape. Its muzzle clamped shut, hiding its massive maw, its eyes alight with white fire. The only noise came from the water dripping from its moist, scaly skin.

  Its unblinking gaze was fixed on me, keeping me frozen in place—which didn’t seem like a great idea because, when it smiled, its jaw unhinged and showed off its rather pointed teeth. There existed a strong possibility the dragon in the lake was related to a piranha. Which actually made it even worse. In the movie I’d watched featuring those sharp-toothed buggers, the water churned red when they fed. And if one was bad, imagine two or three of them.

  I swallowed hard as I stared at the trio of bobbing heads, suspended on long necks. Or was it their bodies? Didn’t matter as they undulated and weaved over me.

  No amount of Kegels in the world would have stopped me from peeing myself a bit.

  What else could I do with a three-headed water monster swaying in front of me? It wasn’t as if I had a sword like some jacked-up superhero. I didn’t have a gun or even a fishing rod.

  I had legs, but apparently they’d stopped working. I glanced down at my feet that suddenly weighed a gazillion tons. Trying to lift them proved impossible. I didn’t move the slightest bit.

  If I could have, I would have run like I’d never run in my life, because I just knew this wouldn’t end well. While I couldn’t twitch a muscle, I could panic like a champ. My breathing hardened, huffing pants with a hint of holy-crap squeak. Those heads wove in slowly, moving closer. Ding Ding Ding. Lunch is served.

  On the menu today, Naomi Tartare.

  Run.

  What was the point? I knew my limitations.

  Run, you idiot.

  My inner voice turned rude, but it had a point. I really should do something other than gape in petrified horror as the open maw on the middle head descended.

  Move!

  Too late. I was engulfed, which resulted in me marinating my pants. I also yodeled. “Argh!” Any moment, I expected the sharp crunch as I got chewed to bits.

  It swallowed me! I stiffened, and then I went completely nuts, rolling and thrusting with arms and legs, only to be confined. Trapped.

  Caught in my comforter.

  The realization I fought my blanket caused me to pause. I hadn’t been eaten. Yay.

  On the boo side, I really had peed myself. Getting old sucked. And it was more work, too! I’d have to wash the comforter, which was not how I wanted to start my day. Lying still, I blew at a hank of hair strung across my sweaty face.

  Why me?

  I should have been happy I’d woken in my bed, uneaten. Yet not only had I wet myself, I appeared to be wrapped in a tight cocoon. It took some grunting and effort, but I eventually managed to free an arm and a leg. However, my attempt to extricate my second arm saw me rolling off the edge of the bed onto the floor.

  Damn. Oops.

  Another one of my fine moments. I was on a roll this morning. Hello, I am Naomi Rousseau, hitting the other side of forty, divorced, still about thirty pounds overweight, and, despite all my attempts, not quite winning at life. Did I mention I was clumsy, too?

  I used to have a gym teacher, a kind man, who claimed my lack of coordination came from being left dominant. A lefty who smeared all her schoolwork, the blue pen staining
the side of my hand all through high school. The struggle was real.

  Then there was the stigma of being left-handed. There was a cashier at the grocery store that used to perform the sign against evil whenever she saw me, and I am pretty sure I once heard her mutter something about me going to hell.

  Going to hell because I wrote with the less dominant hand. Seemed a little extreme to me. Meriting a spot in Hades should be a little more difficult, say like having dirty thoughts about random men. I’d been doing that a lot lately.

  I’d heard stories about women getting horny when they hit midlife. I’d assumed it was a myth. I’d not felt anything at all when I was married to Martin. Barely the slightest interest and the few times I did get in the mood—usually by reading an excellent book—I took care of business myself—quickly, with sticky fingers and a hint of shame as if I did something tawdry.

  Of late, I’d gotten over that mental block. I had to because, once I’d accepted being single, my body went into carnal overdrive. Suddenly I became very interested in sex—and my lack of. I wanted to get laid. If only I could get the nerve to date.

  Maybe I’d be brave enough if I lost a few more pounds.

  I was pretty sure I’d lost at least two wrestling my blanket. I certainly breathed a little hard. I lay on the floor for a moment, resting. I could do that most of the time without screwing it up.

  The ceiling overhead soothed with its glow-in-the-dark pattern. Using a luminescent paint, I’d traced the odd symbols etched in the beams that held up the roofline. Those marks were repeated throughout the house, along with other symbols. I had no idea what they meant or if they were just decorative. I enjoyed looking at the pattern they made. Especially in my room. At night, if I stared long enough, I’d swear they moved. The sigils appeared as if they floated and formed shapes that I could almost understand.

  Crazy. Just like my recurring nightmare about Maddy the lake monster was nuts. I’d recently debunked the whole haunted lake myth.

  Can you believe, when I first moved into my grandma’s cottage after my house burnt down, the whole town actually believed we had a mythical creature problem? Even I’d almost succumbed to the mania for a bit until I discovered a company had taken over the old mill in town and was experimenting with a new geological digging tool. Lo and behold, in the dark, at night, their machine to mine lake mud looked just like a monster.

  People, being superstitious by nature, freaked out. It didn’t help that Airgeadsféar—the company with an unpronounceable name—was so secretive. Especially with their business dealings. The company had snatched up more than three-quarters of the properties in town. The inhabitants that remained were either determined never to move or were holding out for a bigger payout.

  I belonged to the former category. The cottage I’d inherited from my grandma wasn’t for sale. As for the store I’d purchased with the funds I’d recently acquired? Mine. All mine. Not that I had any idea what to do with it.

  For a brief time, I’d entertained this grandiose idea of opening my own bookstore, only the town had one already and wasn’t populated enough for two. Serving food, even coffee, didn’t appeal. If I wanted to make tips, I could waitress part time for Orville at Maddy’s, the local diner.

  There was a grocery store already, plus a hardware shop, leaving me with few options. I couldn’t cut hair or do nails, and I had no sense of style according to my friends.

  Nor would I open up a psychic shop like my daughter, Winnie—born Wendy Abigail Dunrobin—kept suggesting. Although, with the townsfolk believing I was descended from witches, it might actually work, but I was keeping that as a last resort.

  “You okay up there? I heard a thump,” Winnie shouted up the stairs from the first floor.

  “Fine,” I hollered back as the child of my loins checked on my wellbeing.

  We’d come a long way in the last few months. From her living in the United States still and barely speaking to me to her moving in. It wasn’t always the smoothest of arrangements. We still had work to do repairing our relationship, but we were closer than I could have ever hoped.

  If only I could get to the same level of understanding with my son.

  One kid at a time.

  I untangled myself from my comforter and noticed the time. Just after seven. Winnie would be going to work soon. It was more than a thirty-minute drive into the next town. I hated to think of her driving that far on a single-lane highway once the snow started flying, but there weren’t many other options.

  Since my shop wasn’t yet open for business, I couldn’t exactly hire her, and Winnie insisted on having her own funds. I was fine with that, as I only had a limited amount that I’d have to dole out carefully just in case the new career as a shop owner didn’t pan out.

  I could get by for at least a year if I kept things lean. But I really didn’t want to deplete the stash left from the divorce. I needed this store to make some money. And soon.

  What was I thinking?

  Not for the first time since making that leap, I questioned my decision. What made me think I could run a business? I’d been a homemaker for most of my adult life. I’d never managed anything other than a household. And I did a kick-butt job at it. So good in fact that both my children basically stopped talking to me and my husband had an affair and left.

  I’d failed my marriage, my kids, and myself. What made me think I could actually do this?

  I splashed water on my face as the familiar panic had me wishing I’d never bought the shop. It was a lot less stressful working for someone else.

  Maybe I should accept the offer to work at the gas station. Darryl, the owner—and one of the guys who made my lady parts tingle—had offered me any shift I wanted. But if I worked for him, then I’d have to say no to his casual offer of dinner. I knew better than to date my boss. And I really wanted to date Darryl, so that job was off the table.

  I could always talk to Orville. Despite Marjorie going back to work, he’d said I was welcome to pop in anytime if I needed some extra cash.

  If the shop failed, I at least had options. Was it wrong to miss the days no one in town would let me work or pay for anything because they thought I was a witch? In retrospect, I should have enjoyed it more. But no, dumb me had to prove I wasn’t a hexing sorceress and that nothing bad would happen to them if they treated me like a normal person. On the contrary, bad things only seemed to happen to me.

  After rinsing my face, I brushed my teeth then winced as I went after my hair. The shower the night before hadn’t rid me of the paint that had dried strands of it together in clumps.

  Since I couldn’t afford to hire someone to renovate the interior of my new shop, I did it myself. Nothing major, though. My skills went no further than cleaning and painting. The first I did well, the latter… I somehow always ended up covered in it. Winnie teased I didn’t need to buy rollers. I could just rub myself on the walls. Brat. Even if it was true.

  I pulled my hair up in a sloppy bun, a style I’d have eschewed not so long ago, but I rather liked how it looked. It went well with my baggy sweatshirt and leggings.

  As I emerged from the bathroom, Winnie yelled, “You having breakfast? Or is this a fasting day?”

  My belly grumbled, but it did that every morning. “Just coffee for me,” I shouted down. I’d added an extra element to my low-carb dieting. Intermittent fasting. Having read many articles and following a few blogs and vlogs, I felt as if it were the next step in my weight loss journey. More than eighty pounds gone now.

  Well, technically, three hundred and ten if my weighty ex-husband counted. I never realized just how much Martin held me back until we divorced. At the time, I didn’t take it well. But now… I wish he’d dumped me years ago.

  Putting on my pants, I realized they were too loose to stay up on their own. Might be time to scale down another size. I hadn’t been this small since I got pregnant with my first kid. The addition of extra physical work prepping the store also meant I was in the best shape I’d
been in a decade. If not more.

  I ended up using a thin fabric scarf that my best friend, Trish, had given me as a belt. But that was only a temporary solution. I’d need new clothes. The question being, would I dress like a mom, as I’d been doing for so long, or opt for something more daring? I’d gotten a few shirts in bold colors that had some shape that accentuated my positives.

  Maybe time for some jeans? I’d not worn them in awhile, preferring the stretchy variety of pants. In my younger days, I used to live in denim. Time to rediscover that love.

  Entering the kitchen, I noted Wendy sitting at the table, munching on some buttered toast. It looked delicious, but it was bad for me.

  A lifelong addiction to carbs and no self-control led to me gaining a lot of weight, which, in turn, snowballed into health problems and self-esteem issues. Which exacerbated my anxiety and led to, you guessed it, more eating.

  I’d broken that cycle, but it was a daily struggle. I missed delicious things like toast and French fries. But you know what I liked even more? Getting up in the morning with knees that didn’t hurt and being able to shop anywhere I liked and finding clothes that fit.

  I aimed for the coffee pot and poured a cup of coffee that I lightened with a dash of heavy cream. I took a gulp and sighed in satisfaction as the caffeine filled me. Morning just wasn’t right without it.

  I turned and leaned against the counter as I sipped. Wendy browsed something on her phone as she ate her second piece of toast, this time dabbing a bit of jam on it.

  “You working all day?” I asked.