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 C O NT E NT S

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Prologue
1. Grayson
2. Altair
3. Grayson
4. Altair
5. Grayson
6. Altair
7. Grayson
8. Altair
9. Grayson
10. Altair
11. Grayson
12. Altair
13. Grayson
14. Altair
15. Grayson
16. Altair
Epilogue
Thank you for reading!
The Moonstar Dating Agency Series

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 P RO L O GU E

A LT A I R

A fog had rolled in during the evening and hung thinly in the night
air, just a veil of mist, the kind that put droplets on every leaf in Old
Shore Port and made the dawn sparkle. One might not think it, but
this type of mist was perfect for fire hunting. The haze of
atmosphere put a halo glow around any light source, and from six
hundred feet up, amplified a hundred-fold by my ruby eyes, I could
see any blaze just as it started. That was my main work in the flight
—spotting, scouting, making sure we were on track. Flying on my
right wing was Rainor, the muscle who could do the heavy lifting
that Delos and I couldn’t. Delos, with the silver scales on my left,
was our resident ice dragon, the linchpin of every Fire Flight. His ice
breath could snuff out a burning warehouse in a near-instant—not
to mention deep freeze everyone still inside. That was why it was
up to Rainor and I to get everyone out first.

A trail of steam rippled off of Rainor and me, fueled by the

molten energy burning deep in our bodies. Delos, on the other
hand, was tailed by a swirl of powdered snow, and the mist formed
a web of crystals on his hardened skin. Anyone looking up into the
sky would see our flight pattern painted into the sky and know that
somewhere there was a fire burning. Most humans felt something
between unease and relief. Relief, knowing that someone was here
to take care of it. Unease, because they chose to believe the stories
about dragons that’d been meant to terrify them as children.

“Eleven o’clock,” I said. “The Market District. There’s a fire in the

stalls.”

“I see it,” grunted Rainor. “How bad is it?”

I focused my power. The world below me flashed with

luminescence, and anything that gave off heat was visible to my
eyes. Even from our altitude, I could perfectly see a pair of cats
bounding away from the fire, which was spreading to the merchant
huts shuttered for the night. People were rushing out of the nearby
buildings into the darkness, helplessly flinging buckets of water onto
the building flames. A horse-drawn water cart arrived and more
people were trying to extinguish the fire. Useless. The real fire
brigade was here. Someone noticed, jabbing a finger up into the sky
at us, and as we pinned our wings back and shot downwards
towards the blaze, they began to scatter.

“No one’s inside,” I bellowed. “But the fire is spreading fast.”

“Then let’s get to work,” Delos said.

The cobblestone and dirt rushed up to meet us, and we swooped

into a landing in front of the fire. The horse panicked and bolted,
flinging the driver off the cart and sending water sloshing from the
back.
 “Clear the area!” I roared.

People were screaming, not because of the flames, but because

of us. Most humans had never had an up-close encounter with a
shifted dragon. It was a reaction we were well used to. They
scattered and fled back into their houses or alleyways, leaving the
inferno clear for Delos to work his magic. Rainor and I moved
forward and spread our wings, forming a shield of heat-resistant
scales for Delos to shelter behind, and together we advanced, one
thundering step at a time. The tips of our wings touched the faces
of the buildings on either side of the street and left a groove where
our end-claws scraped into the mortar. Frightened eyes stared out
of windows and quickly ducked away as we passed.

We were in range. Delos positioned his head over our wings,

and his horns crackled with deep blue energy. Anyone looking would
be able to see the moisture in the air being drawn to him and
becoming crystallized as it swirled around his nostrils. He filled his
lungs and released a powerful beam of ice, like the cascade of a
frozen waterfall in the deep winter. Rainor and I lit our inner
furnaces to keep ourselves from freezing stiff. Frost crept on the
windows and buildings nearby, and the flames quickly turned to a
cloud of white steam. Snow drifted around us and quickly melted
once it hit the ground. Delos pulled back—the fire was out, just
minutes after we’d arrived.

“Ah, shit,” Rainor rumbled. His wings folded in as his body shrank
and scales became fabric and flesh. He ran forward and slid onto his
knees next to a cold, motionless lump of black fur. It was one of the
cats, singed and now frozen stiff.

Delos and I joined him in our human forms. Rainor scooped it up

into his arms. “You dumb cat,” he murmured. “Why didn’t you run
away?”

“Is it alive?” I asked.

“Of course not,” Delos said. “It’s a block of ice.”

Rainor hugged the thing against his massive chest. As tough as

he looked, he had a soft spot for fluffy things. Steam rose off his
skin, and the cat’s fur dripped with condensation. He was using his
heat to warm it.

“Have a little faith, Delos,” Rainor said. “Or is your cold heart
incapable of that?”

Delos laughed, and his breath fogged the air.

I put my hand on the cat’s back and pushed heat to my palm. I

could feel a pulse, very weak, but growing stronger as we
transferred our heat into its body. Then, it opened its eyes, two
little green jewels, and gave a weak meow, like it was thanking us.

The street had gone completely silent except for occasional

squealing pop from the charred and frost-bitten wood. No one there
to acknowledge us, not so much as a thank you. They were all
hiding. Who would dare speak to a dragon? That was just how the
world was. Everyone had something they were afraid of. For most, it
was us.

“I’m taking it back to the station,” Rainor said. “Is that

acceptable?”

We were a flight, closer than brothers. Every decision had to be

unanimous.

“We can’t leave it here,” I said. “It’ll die.”

“Whatever,” Delos said. “I’m not opposed. But you’re going to

take care of it, Rainor. If it bothers me, I won’t hesitate to make it
into a tasty popsicle.”

“And I’ll turn your balls into lumps of coal,” Rainor said.

He gently set the cat next to his boot. Bones shifted, expanded,
twisted, scales popped and spread, horns sprouted, and teeth
lengthened. Our bodies rose until we could see the roofs of the
buildings and peer into second-story windows. Rainor carefully
gathered the bundle of fur between his claws.

Our wings sent mini cyclones swirling up the street, kicked ash
and dust into the air, and sent the shop signs swinging madly on
their beams, and the three of us climbed up and up into the night
sky, back towards the outskirts of Old Shore Port, back to the
station.
 1

GRA Y S O N

I felt her moving in my belly, her usual morning stretches, a rude

awakening by the sudden bustle of the tavern’s kitchen and the
shouts of Mr. Forester, demanding why I wasn’t already behind the
counter serving the tea and biscuits to the men going to the
factories and the mugs of stout to those finishing their moonlight
shifts. I pulled on my apron and kept my reasons to myself, they
wouldn’t do anything to keep his nagging at bay.

“I let you rent the upstairs room, I expect you to be on time!” he

said as I passed him.

I pushed through the double doors and grabbed a plate of eggs

and sausage and a mug of tea waiting to go out, and delivered
them to a ragged-looking man at the counter.

“Oy, omega. Where’s my ale?” a bearded, soot-covered man

said.

“I have a name,” I said. “It’s Grayson, and you can hold your
damn horses.”
 “Omega!” someone else shouted. “Tea and a plate of those
sausages. Grilled tomatoes with them.”

The pewter mug filled with the frothy stuff, and I slid it across
the counter before dipping my head into the back to shout the new
order. I was used to the disrespect, it happened every day. Pregnant
without an alpha, not mated, working in a tavern… it was the
perfect storm of attention-drawing taboos. It didn’t get to me,
though. It could be irritating, sure, but I was far past the point of
being bothered by what people thought about me. And with this
one growing my belly, I knew I had to be strong. She would have to
be strong, too.

How did I know it was a girl? I could just feel her, no other
explanation than that. She had about a month to go, maybe less,
and hopefully by that time I would’ve earned enough money to get
a better place, to not have to live in the musty bedroom above the
tavern where I could only get three hours of sleep a night due to
having to close and open the damn place. How I hadn’t gone crazy
already was a miracle—and a feat of my resilience, if I was allowed
to ring my own bell.

And it would be lovely to not have to owe Mr. Forester rent.

Working for the grumpy old man was bad enough. Yes, I was in
deep need of an upgrade. More than a tiny porthole for a window
would be nice, too. And no roaches. Please, no roaches. The biggest
thing would be having a space to have my baby, to raise her
undisturbed. Of course, I’d still have to work the tavern, which was
a bit of an issue, but that was a problem for Future Grayson to
figure out.

I bussed more orders and scurried back and forth between the
kitchen and the front, lugging plates of steaming hot breakfast and
filling mugs with ale and tea. Mr. Forester danced between helping
the cook, chatting up the patrons and cleaning up, and though we
were not friends, I did respect that he didn’t ask for any more work
than he was willing to put in himself. There were worse bosses in
Old Shore Port, and I’d probably worked for all of them.

The door swung open, jangling the brass bell hanging in the
frame, and a tall man with a powerful gait strode in. Immediately, I
could tell he wasn’t human. It wasn’t that I was familiar with
dragons, I could probably count the number of times I’d ever
actually met one on my fingers and toes, but this one was obvious.
You could feel it and you could see it. You just knew that his body
was hiding something powerful, a deep magic, ancient blood. He
was different from all the other men inside, and they knew it too.
They looked at him from the corners of their eyes, glances over
shoulders, discreet assessments. For a second, the place got quiet,
like everyone had to take a second to check if they’d shit their
pants. I wasn’t afraid, though. Not really. I mean, a little nervous,
maybe. Excited. Curious.

“There’s a free table in the corner, there,” I said, gesturing.

“What can I get you?”

“Tea,” he said. He pointed to one of the stools at the counter.

“Can I sit here?”
 “Uh, sure.”

He sat, and one of the men at the counter picked up his plate of
food and moved away. A dragon! Their community was small,
especially in this town, and they stuck to socializing with their own.
I’d always wanted to meet one, ever since I was a kid. I’d heard all
sorts of stories about them—that they used to eat humans and that
some still did, that at one point they used to outnumber men, that
they would destroy and burn towns to the ground for fun. I’d also
heard that they were incredible lovers and that humans used to get
seduced and drawn into their flights, never to be seen again. All
stories probably told to frighten, but they only fascinated me.

The order of sausages and tomatoes came out, and I dropped it

onto the table in front of the man who’d ordered it.

“Hey!” he grunted as a sausage bounced off the plate. I was too

distracted by our new guest to care.

“I’m here for information,” the newcomer announced, his voice

suddenly filling every corner of the tavern. “I’m here on behalf of
the Fire Flight, to ask if anyone knows anything about the fire in the
Market District three days ago, and the fire at the steam factory a
week before that. Was anyone there?”
Again, silence. Mr. Forester disappeared into the back. I could
hear the wind whistling through the room. It was like everyone had
turned into frightened dogs, tails between their legs. I could see
some men were angry, hunched over and scowling at their plates.
Others truly looked plain frightened, their eyes wide and frozen.
 The man cleared his throat. “It would help us better protect the
town if you share any information you have. Anyone? Well, I’ll be
right here finishing my tea if anyone has something for me.”

“You’re a dragon, aren’t you?” I asked, folding my arms onto the

counter. Some of the men looked at me in surprise, like I was
inviting him to pop into dragon form and gobble up everyone in the
room.

He raised an eyebrow like it was the first time anyone had asked
him that question. “I am,” he said. “My name’s Altair. I’m a member
of the Old Shore Port Fire Flight. I’m here for information.”

“Well, I don’t think you’re going to get anything. Not from them.
They’re all scared of you.”

“Dammit, omega,” someone grumbled.

“Grayson,” Mr. Forester hissed from the kitchen door. “Grayson,

stop encouraging it. You’re provoking it.”

“Is it true you can breathe fire?” I asked. “Why would a fire-
breathing dragon help put them out? It seems like you’d be the one
starting them.”

Altair glared at me, and I took a step back. His eyes looked like
molten lava. “I do it—we do it—because humans won’t,” he said.
“We do it to make sure this town is safe. It’s our home, too.”
 “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

He smirked. “It’s alright. I’m used to it.”

“So… can you breathe fire?”

“Have you never seen a dragon before?”

“Only from a distance. Flying in the sky. And I’ve had glimpses of
them at the factories, powering the furnaces and stuff. Moving the
big stone blocks. But I’ve never met one. Like, up close and
personal. I’ve never seen magic up close, I mean.”

“Hm. This tea is cold,” he said, taking a sip.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Let me get you another.”

“No need.” He gripped the pewter mug around its base and his
fingers began to glow as if bright sunlight were beaming through his
skin. The tea steamed and began to bubble. A smile crossed his lips
when he saw my jaw hit the floor.

“Whoa.”

He gestured to my swollen belly. “Boy or a girl?”

“Girl,” I said. “Well, I’m pretty sure, anyway.” I waited for him to
ask the usual questions about who the alpha was, and all the
typical judgment and condescension about the life choices that had
brought me here. If I could fund my life on disapproving looks, I
would’ve had a mansion by now.

“You must be very happy,” he said.

“I am,” I said, like the idea was a foreign concept. “Yeah. I’m
looking forward to starting my own little family. Even if it’s just me
and her.”

“Good,” he said. Then Altair did something even more shocking—

he lifted the mug to his lips and swallowed the boiling hot tea in
two big gulps. I couldn't stop myself from gasping, but he was
perfectly fine. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and put
a coin down on the counter—way more than the cost of a cup of
tea.

“It doesn’t seem like I’m going to get what I’m looking for here.
And it’s obvious I’ve overstayed my welcome.” He raised his voice.
“If anyone has any information, please bring it to the station. These
fires might be connected.”

He strode through the room and was gone in a flash, my first

real encounter with a dragon alpha over as quick as it’d started.

“Ouch!” I recoiled as I touched the mug—it was still incredibly

hot.

I realized my heart was thudding fast in my chest. His eyes

were really something.
 The conversations picked up again, people grumbling and
complaining about having been interrupted, wondering why he’d
had to come here of all places, why the dragons couldn’t just do
their work without bothering humans. Wasn’t he protecting all of
us? Didn’t these people see that?

“Wake up!” Mr. Forester said, smacking my shoulder with a

dishtowel. “Orders! Orders!”

I sighed and got back to work.

 2

A L T A IR

D elos w as on the roof of the station. I could see him from where I
was flying, crawling slowly on his hands and knees towards the
watchtower, and I wondered what the hell he was up to. I made
one final circle above the station to finish up my watch. The
watchtower jutted up twenty feet out of the station roof, and we
used it as a platform for observation as well as to alight and land. I
landed on the brick rail on the top edge of the watchtower and
peered over, still in my dragon form, to see what Delos was doing.

“Dammit, Altair,” he hissed up at me, waving his hand. “You’re

going to scare him. I’ve been trying to get this damn cat down all
day.”

That’s when I saw Soot, the black cat we’d rescued, perched
precariously on the ridge of the roof. He stared curiously at Delos,
who was inching his way towards him. Soot licked his paw,
stretched, and gave a big yawn. He hadn’t seemed to notice my
arrival at all, or the fact that I was in my dragon form above him.
I shifted and dropped into a crouch on the ledge. “For someone who
says he doesn’t give a shit about Soot, you sure do seem to care a
lot.”

“I’m only up here because Rainor won’t get off his ass. And you
know how he’ll cry if his precious kitty gets hurt. Remember when
he accidentally turned Drumstick into fried chicken?”

Drumstick was a chicken Rainor had rescued from a burning

farm. Poor thing was following him around everywhere like he was
its dad, and it made one wrong step when he was practicing his
firebreathing… The dinner that night had been excellent, though.
The most succulent bird I’d ever eaten.

“It’s a cat,” I said. “I’m sure it knows how to get down.”

Delos stretched his hand out and was just inches away from
reaching Soot when his knee slipped on the narrow wedge and he
went tumbling down the side of the roof like a log down a hill. The
cat and I watched as he bounced down, cursing all the way. When
he flipped over the edge of the eaves, he shifted into dragon form
and caught himself in the air with one flap of his wings. Soot
squinted his eyes, his whiskers blowing from the turbulence. But he
was undisturbed, and he jutted a leg into the air and licked his
nethers before getting up and elegantly padding away.

“I swear to the heavens,” Delos said. “I’ll turn him into an ice
cube.”
 He flew up to where I was and shifted back to human form, and
we took the stairs down into the station together. Rainor was
roosted up in the common area hammock, reading a book that
looked miniature in his massive hands. The man was a beast, a fire
tank, all muscle in human form and all armor scales as a dragon.

“Your cat is out running around,” Delos said.

“Our cat,” said Rainor, without looking up from his book. “He
belongs to the flight. And I’m sure he was just fine. Don't worry
about him.”

“Who said I’m worried?” Delos leaped from the rest-area balcony
down to the floor below.

The inside of the station was two floors, the bottom floor open
with a large central area in the middle that we normally used for
working out. There was a kitchen space, sitting space, and the
ladder to the upstairs, which had a central atrium and a balcony
that went around the entire perimeter of the station. Our private
quarters were on the second floor, as was a common area where we
kept a small library and a hammock for lounging, among other
things. And then, of course, the wrought iron staircase that circled
up into the watchtower. The building itself was a couple of hundred
years old and had been patched up and built on over the decades,
and in the ten years since we’d come to occupy it, we’d hardly ever
maintained it other than performing the necessary repairs. The
place was, quite frankly, a mess—but for a flight of alpha dragons
with a town to look after, our attentions were hardly on making
things pretty. Our ancestors made their homes in caves and the
deepest recesses of the earth, so a little dust didn’t bother us much.

Delos went to the kitchen and poured himself a tea, which he

stuck a finger into to make ice-cold, and then stalked off to go be
on his own. Ice dragons were temperamental, and Delos could be
extraordinarily moody. He wasn’t really upset. I knew his personality
like I knew myself—that was how it was with the three of us.

“So, what’s the word from our dear townsfolk?” Rainor asked.
“Let me guess. No one willing to help?”

I shrugged. “You know how it is.”

“You’re far too optimistic with the humans. You should’ve known
you’d be wasting your time. That’s how it goes. We keep them safe,
put out the fires, and not so much as a peep of thanks.”

“We’re not doing it for thanks,” I reminded him. “We’re doing it

because—”

“Yeah, I know. Because it’s our duty to our home. Sometimes, I

don’t get your willingness to interact with them. Especially with your
history.”

I closed my eyes, pushing away the thought of flames and terrible

memories. “Let’s not get into the past,” I grunted. “We’re saddled
with the jobs the humans don’t want to do. But I know you’re proud
of what we do. I know you have just as much cause to fight fires as
I do. All three of us do.”

“So, you’re still convinced these last fires are connected?”

“I don’t know. It’s a feeling.” Suddenly, I remembered the omega

from the tavern. What was his name? Grayson. “There was this
human at a tavern I went to today,” I told Rainor. “An omega.
Pregnant.”

He raised an eyebrow and folded the book onto his stomach.

“What, you’re thinking it’s this pregnant omega?”

“No, no. He didn’t have anything to do with the fires.” I ran my

finger along the tops of the books on the shelf.

“So, what then?”

“Nothing. Just that he was the only one to speak with me. An
omega, can you believe that? All the others couldn’t even look me
in the eye.”

“Typical,” he said.

Which was all the more reason for why Grayson had stood out so
much. His green eyes burned brightly in my memory, the way he’d
looked at me with such curiosity, which was nothing like the way
any human had looked at me before. No fear in those eyes. It
wasn’t like me to become fixated on a human or to keep any
particularly strong memories of one. I dealt with them every day,
saved their lives even, but they were all like passing shadows, often
faceless, nameless, of no consequence. But this one had made an
impression.

Rainor went back to his book. I wanted to speak more about

Grayson, but I didn’t know what to say about him other than he was
on my mind, so I decided to just keep quiet. He was just a human.

There was a gentle meow, and Soot appeared on top of the

bookshelf, tail swishing slowly as he strolled to the edge and leaped
down onto Rainor’s chest and curled up right in front of his open
book.

He laughed and stroked the cat’s head. “You’re teasing Delos again,
huh? Why don’t you just let him love you?”

“Love him?” I chuckled. “He’s one step away from turning our
new station pet into an ice statue.”

“Come on. You know how Delos is. He’s probably more attached
to Soot than I am. You’ll see.”

The access door to the watchtower dropped open and Delos

stuck his head through. “Hey. There’s a human sneaking around
outside the station. You might want to take a look, Altair.”
 Delos sat with his back against the brick wall and scooped up his
mug of iced tea. “Down there,” he said, gesturing with his chin.

Sure enough, someone was creeping around on the street

opposite the station. They were covered up with a shawl, like they
were trying not to be seen, but there was nothing subtle about their
snooping. They walked up and down the street, glancing up at the
station, but not noticing the two of us watching from the top of the
tower—or at least they hadn’t until that moment. They froze, turned
heel, and quickly scampered around the corner, disappearing.

“Maybe it has something to do with your suspected fire starter?”

Delos said.

“I’m going to find out.”

A second later I was in the air, Delos’s curses that I’d made him
spill his tea fading away as I lifted into the sky. I could see the
human below making their way up the empty street through the
Drakendowns district, past the shuttered buildings that had been
destroyed by fire two decades before and never rebuilt. The
Drakendowns had once been a bustling hub for dragons in Old
Shore Port, but a series of fires and lack of new opportunities had
driven many away from our secluded town to find greener pastures.
Now it was mostly humans living in the old dragon district. And us,
of course.

I put myself directly in alignment with the sun, high enough so

that it would be difficult for the human to spot me if they looked
into the sky. If someone had come with information, I didn’t want to
terrify them into silence. That could happen far too easily. They
were moving close to the buildings, thinking they were hidden, but
nothing with a pulse and a temperature could escape my eyes, even
behind a layer of brick. I carefully descended, keeping enough
distance that they wouldn’t see me, and landed in an alleyway just
ahead of them.

Back to human form. I could hear them walking quickly, huffing

and puffing, and I stepped out of the alley and casually leaned
against the wall. They gasped and ran straight into me. I caught
them in my arms and steadied their shoulders. A pregnant belly
pressed against me, and I immediately knew who was under the
hood. He pulled it down and looked up at me, green eyes wide.

“Altair! It’s you!” Grayson said, blinking as he stepped away from

me. He managed to look both relieved and shocked at the same
time, and he looked back over his shoulder towards the station.
“Did you…did you see me? How’d you get over here?”

“It must be difficult to be land-tied,” I said. “I flew. And yes, you

weren’t nearly as stealthy as you thought you were. Not to a
dragon’s eyes.”

“I wasn’t trying to be suspicious,” he said.

“You were doing a hell of a lot of sneaking for someone trying

not to be suspicious.”

He looked defensive. “I wasn’t sneaking. I was investigating.”

 “Investigating?”

“I wanted to see where you lived.”

“That sounds like sneaking.”

“Er, I didn’t mean it like that. I was hoping to…I don’t know.
You’re the first dragon I’ve ever met, and I was so curious.”

I sighed. “Well, let me tell you something about dragons. We

don’t enjoy being gawked at. That’s how humans get eaten.”

“You wouldn’t eat anyone, I’m sure that goes against your code
as a firefighter or something.”

I laughed and turned away. “I was hoping someone had decided

to come with some information. Instead, an omega has come to
stalk me. Here. You can see your first dragon shift as I fly away
from you.”

“Hey, wait! Wait. I never said I didn’t have something to share.”

He squeezed his hands together like he was wringing out his
nervousness. “Um… some of the men at the tavern talked about a
foul wind blowing through town. They’re saying it’s bad luck to talk
about the fires. Maybe that’s why no one wanted to speak to you.”

“I’m sure they also say it’s bad luck to speak with a dragon,
Grayson.”
 “You remembered my name,” he said.

“Of course. I think you’re the first human to look me in the eye
in years. Someone forgot to tell you you’re supposed to be
frightened of alphas like me.”

“I don’t believe in any of that,” he said.

“Then you aren’t like the others.”

His face went a shade red, and I could feel his body temperature
perk up slightly. He put a hand on his belly. “No. And that’s always
been my problem. I’m sorry I don’t have any more information to
give you. But hopefully, it’s better than nothing.”

“It was helpful. Thank you.”

He lit up. “Good. I’m glad I could help.”

As he was making his way up the road, I called out to him and
leaped into the air, shifting as I did, my wings scooping the air and
pushing me up and up. His eyes were wide, a look of amazement,
and then a grin. The current of wind whipped the street around him,
kicking up a swirl of old papers and dead leaves, and he watched as
I climbed away.
 3

GRA Y S O N

T he tavern roared with nighttime bustle, and I was right in the thick
of it, my arms loaded up with trays of ale and stewed beef sloshing
around in wooden bowls, threatening to splatter onto my head. I
managed this balancing act by myself, as usual, slipping between
the drunken patrons to make my deliveries around the room. And,
as usual, alcohol-loosened hands made unwanted attempts at my
body. I’d gotten good at avoiding them, and sometimes I could even
manage to make a bit of hot stew splash onto their fingers if I
jerked the tray in the right direction.

“Just a little more,” I confided to the baby girl inside of me. “I

just need a little more time and you and I will be out of this place.”

Soon, I wouldn’t have to subject her to this noise every night. I

imagined it had to be like having the worst neighbors possible, a
constant ruckus when you’re just trying to get some sleep. At least I
had something, though, the space above the tavern and work
putting money in my pocket. It hadn’t always been that way. I’d
spent time on the street, no family willing to take me in after I’d
gotten pregnant.
Another random document with
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Jurgen and the
law
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away
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laws of the country where you are located before using this
eBook.

Title: Jurgen and the law

A statement, with exhibits, of the Court's opinion, and
the brief for the defendants on motion to direct an
acquittal

Editor: Guy Holt

Release date: August 24, 2023 [eBook #71475]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Robert M. McBride &

Company, 1922

Credits: Charlene Taylor, Terry Jeffress and the Online

Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JURGEN

AND THE LAW ***
Jurgen
and the
Law
This edition is limited to one thousand and
eighty numbered copies, of which one thousand
are for sale.

Copy Number 675

 JURGEN AND
THE LAW

A STATEMENT
With Exhibits, including the Court’s Opinion, and
the Brief for the Defendants on Motion to Direct
an Acquittal

EDITED BY

GUY HOLT

NEW YORK
ROBERT M. McBRIDE & COMPANY
1923
 Copyright, 1922, by
Robert M. McBride & Co.

Printed in the
United States of America

Published, January, 1923

JURGEN AND THE LAW
A STATEMENT
 A STATEMENT
If Mr. Cabell had not pre-empted the phrase, the words with which
he characterized the tale Jurgen might well be used as a title for an
account of the tale’s adventures with the law. Those adventures,
which the matter of this book commemorates no less effectively than
it helped to divert them from a less happy outcome, form indeed a
comedy of justice: a comedy which, perhaps, aroused more of
indignation than of mirth, and which, in its duration, somewhat
exceeded the time-limit that a canny dramatist allots himself, but
which ended appropriately on a note of justice, and thus showed
Mr. Cabell to be not only the maker of a happily descriptive phrase
but also somewhat of a prophet.
Well, the comedy of Jurgen’s suppression is ended. The book is
admitted once more to the freedom of the library, and the
pawnbroker is again at liberty to wander throughout the universe in
search of rationality and fair dealing. And in due course, time and the
wisdom of other generations will decide whether the pawnbroker, or
the book, or the adventures of either be in any way memorable.
Today, however, the vicissitudes of Jurgen are of indisputable
importance, if only because similar misfortunes may overtake yet
other publications. At the moment it appears that the position of
literature is less precarious than it has been in the recent past. For
the courts, of late, with gratifying accord have failed to detect
obscenity in a number of volumes at which professional
righteousness has taken offense, and there apparently is cause to
hope that legal precedent will dispel the obscurity which so long has
surrounded decency—within the meaning of the statute. Yet it is still
possible for an incorporated organization to waylay and imprison art:
to exercise by accusation a censorship which impermanence makes
no less dangerous. Until the difference between the liberty permitted
to art and the license forbidden to the vulgar be clearly defined, it
remains impossible for any artist to foreknow how fully he may
describe and thereby interpret life as he sees it, or for the community
to enjoy uninterrupted access to much of the best of ancient and
modern literature.
In the pages which follow is printed an argument that expressly
defines the test whereby that which is legally permissible and that
which is prohibited may be determined. It is, explicitly, an argument
in behalf of Jurgen, submitted at the trial of the publishers of that
book: and it is published in book form, in part because of its intrinsic
interest to all readers of Cabell, in part because it is a valuable
addition to the literature of censorship. But here there seems need to
preface the argument with a brief history of the Jurgen case.

II
It is now a trifle less than three years ago that a Mr. Walter J.
Kingsley, a theatrical press agent, sent to the literary editor of a New
York newspaper a letter[1] directing attention to James Branch
Cabell’s Jurgen as a source of lewd pleasure to the sophisticated
and of menace to the moral welfare of Broadway. Hitherto Jurgen
had found some favor with a few thousands of discriminating
readers; it had been advertised—with, its publishers must now admit,
a disregard of the value of all pornographic appeal—as literature.
Critics, with varying degrees of enthusiasm, had applauded the book
as a distinguished addition to American letters; three editions had
been printed and the tale promised to enjoy the success to which its
wit, its beauty and the profundity of its theme entitled it. No one, until
Mr. Kingsley broke silence, had complained of Jurgen as an obscene
production; no letters of condemnation had been received by the
publishers; and the press had failed to suggest that decorum, much
less decency, had anywhere been violated.
Mr. Kingsley’s letter altered affairs. Immediately a chorus in
discussion of Jurgen arose. In the newspapers appeared many
letters, some in defense of the book, others crying Amen to
Mr. Kingsley. Within a week, the merry game of discovering the “key”
to Jurgen was well under way and a pleasant, rather heated
controversy had begun. In the upshot some one sent a clipping of
the Kingsley letter to Mr. John S. Sumner, secretary of the New York
Society for the Suppression of Vice, calling upon him to do his duty.
Mr. Sumner procured a copy of the book, and, on January 14th,
1920, armed with a warrant, he entered the offices of the publishers,
seized the plates and all copies of the book and summoned the
publishers to appear in court the following day on a charge of
violating section 1141 of the Penal code.[2]
Thereafter the record is uneventful. Mr. Sumner’s complaint[3] was
duly presented and the case was called for formal hearing in the
magistrate’s court on January 23. Upon that date the defendants
waived examination and the case was committed for trial in the Court
of Special Sessions. The trial was set for March 8, but upon motion
of Mr. John Quinn, then Counsel for the Defense, who appeared
before Justice Malone, the case was submitted for consideration to
the Grand Jury which found an indictment against the publishers[4]
thereby transferring the case to the Court of General Sessions and
enabling the defendants to secure a trial by jury. On May 17, 1920,
the publishers pleaded not guilty ... and, until October 16, 1922,
awaited trial.
For, in New York, a “crime wave” was in progress. The courts were
crowded with cases which involved other than a possible technical
violation of the laws; and, however anxious to rid the docket of the
Jurgen case, neither the courts nor the District Attorney’s office could
do other than give precedence to the trials of persons charged with
more serious offenses.
On October 16, then, two and one half years after the indictment,
the Jurgen case was called before Judge Charles C. Nott in the
Court of General Sessions. A jury was drawn, the book was
submitted in evidence and the people’s case was presented. The
defendants, through their attorneys, Messrs. Goodbody, Danforth
and Glenn, and their counsel, Mr. Garrard Glenn, moved for the
direction of a verdict of acquittal, submitting, in behalf of their motion,
the brief which is printed hereinafter. The trial was adjourned for
three days; and on October 19, 1922, Judge Nott rendered his
decision, which also appears hereinafter, and directed the jury to
bring in a verdict of acquittal.

III
There ends the record of the tale Jurgen’s adventures with the law.
The record is, as has been said, uneventful. A book had been
impugned, that is all. An author had been vilified and his publishers
indicted; certain thousands of readers had been deprived of access
to a book which critical opinion had commended to their interest; and
author and publishers both had been robbed of the revenues from
whatever sale the book might have had during the nearly three years
in which it was removed from publication.
True, Mr. Cabell and his book had received much publicity....
There is a legend, indeed, that the author of Jurgen (and of a dozen
other distinguished books) owes much of his present place in letters
to the advertising which Mr. Sumner involuntarily accorded him. But
one may question that. An examination of the publishers’ files seem
to show that most of the expressions of admiration for Jurgen were
repetitions of an enthusiasm expressed before the book’s
“suppression.” And if the enthusiasm and the sympathy of
Mr. Cabell’s admirers were hearteningly evident, the attacks of his
detractors did not flag; and an inestimable number of persons,
knowing Mr. Cabell’s work only through the recorded opinions of
Messrs. Kingsley and Sumner, did certainly condemn him unread
and, shuddering, barred their library doors against him.... No,
Mr. Cabell owes no debt of thanks to the accusers of Jurgen.
But all this is by the way. The argument, which appears in the
following pages, is of importance not alone because it so ably
defends Jurgen, but because it defines, more clearly than any other
recent document, the present legal status of literature in America in
relation to permissible candor in treatment and subject matter. The
brief is not in any sense an argument in behalf of unrestricted
publication of any matter, however obscene, or indeed in behalf of
the publication of obscenity in any form. It is not a denial of the
community’s right to protect itself from offenses against good taste or
against its moral security, or to punish violation of the laws by which
the public welfare is safe-guarded.
But one need not be an apologist of license to perceive that there
is in a thoughtful consideration of every aspect of life no kinship to
indecency; or to perceive that the community cannot, without serious
danger to its own cultural development, ignore the distinction
between the artist’s attempt to create beauty by means of the written
word, and the lewd and vulgar outpourings of the pornographer.
When these two things are confused by a semi-official organization
which is endowed with suppressive powers, even when the courts
fail to sustain its accusations, the menace to the community is
measurably increased. As a protection against this menace the brief
presents, with admirable clarity, a legal test, the validity of which
common sense will readily recognize, for the determination of
literature as distinct from obscenity.
Guy Holt.
New York City,
November 14, 1922.
BRIEF FOR THE DEFENDANTS ON
MOTION TO DIRECT AN
ACQUITTAL
 INDEX
PAGE
I. The question presented is one of law,
which the Court should decide 20
II. The test is the literary as distinct from the
pornographic 21
III. In applying this test, all reasonable doubt
should be resolved in favor of the book 30
IV. In judging the book by the standards
above indicated, it must be read as a
whole, and, on that basis, it must be
upheld even though it may contain
portions which would not stand the test if
isolated 31
V. The book, read as a whole, sustains the
test of the law 34
VI. The passages, to which reference has
been made in the complaint originally
filed in Special Sessions, are not
indecent 57
VII. In conclusion 68
 Court of General Sessions of the
Peace
IN AND FOR THE COUNTY OF NEW YORK.

People of the State of New

York

against

Guy Holt, Robert M. McBride

& Company and
Robert M. McBride

Brief for Defendants on Motion to Direct an

Acquittal.
The defendants have moved for a directed acquittal at the close of
the People’s case. The defendants did not dispute upon the trial the
facts which went to make up such case as the People had. That
case is that the defendants had in their possession, with intent to sell
(they are publishers) a book, “Jurgen”, by Mr. James Branch Cabell;
and it is contended that the book is lewd and obscene within Section
1141 of the Penal Law.
1—The Question presented is one of
law, which the Court should decide.
The rule here to be applied is that obtaining in all criminal cases. It
is the Court’s duty to direct an acquittal when the People’s case has
failed to show guilt beyond a reasonable doubt.
People v. Gluck (188 N. Y. 167);
People v. Smith (84 Misc. 348);
Babcock v. People (15 Hun 347).
The indictment is for having in possession with intent to sell, a
book offending against Section 1141 of the Penal Law. Since the
defendants do not dispute the fact that they did have in their
possession the book with intent to sell it, the simple question is
whether this book violates the criminal law of this state as expressed
in the section of the Penal Law above noted.
While it is sometimes said that this question is one of fact, upon
which it is the function of a jury to pass, nevertheless it is clear that,
when the defendant raises the question whether the book, as a
matter of law, violates the statute, that question is one of law upon
which it is the duty of the court to pass.
People v. Brainard (192 App. Div. 816);
Halsey v. New York Society (234 N. Y. 1).
“It is true that whether the book offends against this
statute is ordinarily a question of fact for the jury in the
first place to determine. It is equally true that upon the
review of a conviction for having offended against this
provision, it is the duty of this court to examine the
publication and see whether the conviction can be
sustained under the facts proven. Upon an
examination of the book I am satisfied that neither
defendant has been guilty of the offense charged in the