Posting this for Karina. I might make an appearance. We'll see. Just a reminder that the Catholic Writers Conference Online registration ends FRIDAY! This is a free conference, with speakers from all areas of Catholic publishing--from the writer to the publisher--covering all areas of writing--from idea generation to query to contract and beyond. Sign up at http://conference.catholicwritersguild.org. See More Information for a list of presenters.

OK. Kid's home with his parents, a little wiser in the ways of Faerie. Hope they ground him until graduation.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah, my lair.

I'm not going to say I was perfectly content in my overcrowded warehouse of a lair or I'll have to go to Confession. Fr. Rich is out of town and it always makes the visiting priests nervous when I enter the Confessional, so let's just say I'd been in worse. I had a nice straight line from my bed and desk to the door--very dramatic for whatever poor sod was seeking my help--and otherwise, I left stuff alone. Every now and then, the church would need something or would be having a garage sale and someone would try to tackle the inventory and find some prize junk, but frankly, the previous owner wasn't all that hot with the books and no one really wanted to devote much time to it. Fine with me. It's the closest thing to treasure I've had in eight centuries. I think I deserve the right to maintain the illusion that it's more than Stuffy-Bear knock-offs and Looney Tunes glasses.

Then circumstances--"circumstances" being a case involving an ancient rite set to rock music and a Cthulhu wannabe--brought us together. Grace decided to stick around and she needed a place to stay.

What can I say? I had room.

Amazing how folks came out of the woodwork to help. Some of her sisters came across the Gap to help clear and clean. The Confirmation class, under the supervision of a couple of carpenters who attend our parish, tore down some of the second level and build walls to make a bedroom, a shower (already had a toilet), and to build up the kitchen. We moved up to the office in the reception area; it's crowded, but better suited to our partnership. Besides, Grace needed the back corner for her workshop; a small, roofed room inside our lair, tucked into the corner. Since no one would have to enter our area now, I moved my bed up closer to Grace's bedroom, which occupied a part of a second-floor. It's narrow and small, but it has a window--not that the view is much, and her harp sits in the small room outside the bedroom. I'll say one thing for the place; it's got surprisingly good acoustics, and Grace magicked them even better.

Another interesting thing is how much useful stuff we found in the hodge-podge of my treasure. Lumber, most of the piping and tiles for the shower; a nice set of dishes for the kitchen--forget Looney Toons; we found Lord of the Rings glasses--and other odds and ends. With some trips to Goodwill and the lumber store, and we managed to make a pretty nice home.

That's enough for now--if you want to know more, ask.

Had planned to blog about how Grace changed my lair, but we have to go rescue some Mundane kid from the Faerie. Thought the fact that a 16-year-old would be considered an adult there was a good excuse to go party. Naturally, he didn't think that his actions would get regarded as those of an adult as well.

The human authorities in Mundane and Faerie have protocols for handling this sort of thing, but--yay, us!--this kid decided to get into creative trouble. Something about too much ale and nymphatic wiles, a pocket knife and carving some initials into a tree. Take a hint from me: Not Romantic.

Anyway, I'll blog about Grace Monday. In the meantime, thought you'd get a giggle out of this. I know I'd buy it--but I'm a dragon.

[url=http://dinnerinabottle.com/beef-stroganof ]Meat-Flavored Water[/url]

OK. *Yawn* I'm up. I'll tell you about my house, then maybe I'll catch another nap. Digesting's hard work, you know.

The first thing you ought to know is that the property itself was willed to the parish right about the time Duke Galen played his little joke condemning me to stay here for good. It's situated in a run-down, low-income area between the railroad tracks and the river. The area's improving now, partly because I'm here and partly because Daniel Flint has started to replace the falling-apart hovels with small but reasonable housing. Got to give him credit, he's a crotchety old geezer, but he comes through on his promises.

Anyway, the parish inherited it, and Fr. Rich took me to check it out and get my opinion. I took to the air and had a look. The general shape of the thing was like a Tetris piece--a long, wide main area with a small square poking out the top and a larger one out the right side. Chain-link fence with concertina wire across the top, cracked sidewalk, empty dog run, trash in the yard, graffiti on the walls, which were half stucco and half dirty brick. I was underwhelmed. And that was just the outside.

Inside, you walked into a "reception" area--and I use that term lightly--with an office/kitchenette to the left and a closet to the right. Wood double-doors with tiny windows--like you see in a restaurant--led to the main warehouse.

Along the right wall ran a narrow second level built with 2 x 4s and paneling Rich said was popular thirty years ago. At the front corner the level widened to a squarish office with half-walls. Guess the supervisor oversaw operations from there while he had his lunch and did paperwork. On the right were bathrooms--men and women. No shower and barely enough room for me if I were desperate. The rest of the cavernous main area was filled with boxes piled on metal or homemade wood shelves. I looked up: The ceiling, corrugated steel, was old, but sound, with steel struts holding it in place and large ducts ending in round vents to heat the place.

Double doors on the right led to a smaller warehouse with no heating. To the back, another small pop-out with a tiny office and another second level and a garage door. Must have been for loading. The guy who died owned some kind of eBay operation that was more focused on deals than any particular merchandise. I didn't smell anything spoiling, but glancing at the boxes revealed a wide range of products, many of which I still hadn't heard of.

I told Fr. Rich it was a dump.

Then he said it could be my dump if I wanted it.

Funny, how that changes your perspective.

You know, once we cleared most of the stuff out of the main area and cleaned it up some, it wasn't half-bad. We even found a stack of memory foam pads that became my bed, which we put directly under one of the vents to the back of the warehouse, desk, a couple of computers, some modular furniture... That guy was into everything. Now I'm surrounded by everything--mostly shoved into the loading bay and cold warehouse, and along the walls. I sold or donated most of the shelves as we've cleared them out, but otherwise I left the stuff alone. It was the closest thing to having treasure I'd experienced in centuries.

That's how I lived for a few years until Grace came along, but that's another story.
Tell you more Thursday.

To hear Karina's side of this story, check out her blog.

Karina asked me to blog about my lair--excuse me, domicile--but I just got back from Faerie where I had myself a nice steak dinner.

Well, sort of steak. I had the whole cow, truth to tell, but at least I could flame broil it first. Damsels and Knights, I love having my fire back!

Anyway, I'm sleepy. I'll tell you about my house on Monday. If I wake up.

If you need me, leave a message with Grace.

1. Clichés will be acknowledged. Twisted or followed or possibly both, the Faerie are all about cliché.

2. The Dragon will be snide. Knowledge of the Ages, Experiences of Eternity, forced to interact with humans on a daily basis--I gotta have some way to cope.

3. Mundanes cannot do magic. Sorry, it's just not part of your universe's make-up.

4. Whenever a Mundane buys, borrows or steals the magic of a Faerie, dire consequences result. People get hurt or killed, souls are endangered... Mundanes and magic do not mix.

5. No matter how vicious the Faerie, some Mundane will think it's cute, or misunderstood, or just needs a buddy, or will grant wishes if you capture or bribe it. Come on, folks--Let My People Alone.

6. If the dragon does something wrong or true to its nature, it will get splashed all over the news. Especially in my new hometown of Los Lagos. Know the saying, "A prophet is never appreciated in his own town"? Works for dragons, too.

7. Evil overlords will follow clichés. Even when they pride themselves for their ingenuity. What gets me are the ones that are deliberate about it, like it's original to be unoriginal.

8. The heroes will get into serious hot water before saving the say. I never said I was omniscient or all-powerful. That's reserved for God.

9. The Dragon doesn't get to eat people. Or small pets. Unless they're my own. (Hey, I only did it once.)

10. The Dragon Always Wins.

Got the first review of Firestorm of Dragons. Melissa had this to say:

A good example of both comic relief and a story that keeps the reader on their toes is Karina Fabian's Dragon Eye, P.I. I look forward to meeting Vern again as Karina expands his repertoire of adventures and maybe even gives him his own novel.

Vern is keeping company with a variety of other dragon types in this anthology including those who are hunted for the value of their blood and meat as well as dragons who become the object of thrill seekers' newest pastime (Dragon Scaling). BTW the word Scaling in this title has duplicate meanings read the story to find out what they are. There are many more and such a wide variety I can't begin to describe them all here but check out this anthology especially if you're into Dragons and Fantasy - these editors have managed to snag themselves quite a pile of delightful stories by talented authors.

You can read the entire review here.

Firestorm of Dragons comes out May 15 from Dragon Moon Press.

Ann Lewis passed on the following rules and wondered what my opinion was on them:

Monsignor Ronald A. Knox (1888-1957) was a British clergyman, editor, a literary critic, a humorist and a detective story writer himself who nicely laid out, with a gentle wit, the "ten rules" that guided detective fiction in its so-called Golden Age. They appeared in the preface to Best Detective Stories of 1928-29, which Knox edited.

1. The criminal must be someone mentioned in the early part of the story, but must not be anyone whose thoughts the reader has been allowed to follow.
--Works for me. I'm a dragon, not a psychic. Besides, in my stories, you follow my thoughts. They're more interesting, anyway.

2. All supernatural or preternatural agencies are ruled out as a matter of course.
--Yeah. Obviously written PG (pre-Gap), so I'll give Msgr Knox a pass.

3. Not more than one secret room or passage is allowable.
--In my experience, any building with only one secret room or passage doesn’t keep it secret for long. The Duke's castle, for example, has seventeen secret passages that I know of, most of which have been employed as short cuts for pages in a hurry, convenient napping spots for the lazy servant, and the secluded spot for the occasional tryst. (How do I know this? Guess who's had the dubious pleasure of getting hired to patrol the secret passages?) Once in awhile, a passage will be condemned and blocked off for a generation until folks forget about it, whereupon, it becomes "secret" again. And you didn't think Faerie recycled.

4. No hitherto undiscovered poisons may be used, nor any appliance which will need a long scientific explanation at the end.
--Does that mean, you can't kill the victim by dropping a refrigerator on him?

5. No Chinaman must figure in the story.
--I'm Equal Opportunity; wherever you're from, Faerie or Mundane, you do the crime I'll catch ya in time. Besides, I like Chinese.

6. No accident must ever help the detective, nor must he ever have an unaccountable intuition which proves to be right.
--Since I have the Wisdom of the Ages and Experience of Eternity, I cannot be held responsible for what humans may consider "unaccountable intuition." I'll try to slow down for you, however. Detective work isn't rocket science; besides, that'd violate Rule 4.

7. The detective must not himself commit the crime.
--Can I commit another crime? Kidding...

8. The detective must not light on any clues which are not instantly produced for the inspection of the reader.
--Since I tell them like I see them, you know about clues when I do.

9. The stupid friend of the detective, the Watson, must not conceal any thoughts which pass through his mind; his intelligence must be slightly, but very slightly, below that of the average reader.
--That let's Grace out. Maybe I can get Kitty McGrue to try out for the part of 'stupid friend."

10. Twin brothers, and doubles generally, must not appear unless we have been duly prepared for them.
--Well, OK, but no one complain to me if some species all look alike to you.

Next Week, I'll come up with my own Ten Rules.

Found this from loyal friend Theresa.
They're made of Meat
I think some of us Magicals have had the same experience. Of course, we have to live with you. Nicely done. I tip my fedora to Stephen O'Regan and his cast and crew. [url=They're made of Meat]Here's Terry Bisson's original story.[/url]

St. Patrick's Day always makes me introspective.

I never met him. During most of his life, I was in Africa, recovering from the concerted efforts of some very nasty dwarves who decided they wanted my cozy home. (Yeah, it was their mine, but they'd left it. Possession is more than nine-tenths of the law where a dragon is concerned. Unfortunately, they disagreed and they had numbers, lots of axes and a good knowledge of which tunnel to collapse on top of me. Not amusing--but that's a different story.)

Anyhow, St. Patrick and I have some things in common. He was captured, taken from his home and forced to serve a cruel master until he ran away six years later. Yet those years gave him the tools he needed to return to Ireland and minister to the inhabitants and convert an entire people. Now he's one of the most popular and beloved saints of all time.

I, too, have been captured and coerced into serving God and Man though the Faerie Catholic Church. (Come on, you didn't think I gave into George willingly, did you? Our battle lasted weeks--the proverbial 40 days, in fact.)

Now, I'm not saying the Church has been a cruel master. I'm certain I've had far more comfort than the good saint. Nonetheless, while it's been a fun gig at times, there's been more than once that I've had the urge to run off--and a few times, I have, but I come back. God's got me between Peter and Conscience. (Think a minute--you'll get the joke. And if not, go here*)

Interestingly, St George himself didn't know why he captured me, converted me into a not much more than a good looking Gila Monster, and forced me into servitude. He was compelled, driven by the Will of God. I don't always acknowledge that, but like I said, St. Patrick's Day makes me introspective. Still, the point is, God wanted a dragon in the employ of the Church. I've done a lot and learned a lot--stuff that I'd never have bothered with as a free dragon. I gotta wonder, though:

Someday, God will free me from my magical bonds. But what's He got planned for me afterward? Is he preparing me for something more?

St. Patrick, I pray for you today and ask that you pray for me.

And tell George I said, "hey."

* A Rock and a Heart's Place