Dragon

by Finley Aaron

  At the sound of her name, Ozzie looks up at us, her expression apologetic. She’s at least managed to eat some of her meat, but I suspect even that effort has worn her out.

  “I can carry her.” Ram crouches down and addresses Ozzie. “Ready to go, girl?”

  Ozzie thumps her tail, and Ram scoops her up, hoisting her above his shoulders, adjusting the swords on his back so the sheaths function as railings, holding Ozzie in place behind his head. She settles her muzzle onto her paws, and I’m glad Ram has such wide shoulders, and that he’s strong enough to carry Ozzie.

  Even if I’m not glad he’s a dragon.

  We walk like that for hours—Ram carrying Ozzie, and me just trying to process everything I’ve learned. I could ask Ram more questions, but I’ve already heard more than I want to know, and anyway, I think carrying Ozzie is wearing him out more than he cares to admit. Honestly, the dog probably weighs more than I do. But I also know Ram was tired after his fight with Ion last night. And he’d said it takes a lot of energy to be a dragon, so I’m sure that doesn’t help.

  The evening is getting cool and the sun sinking below the treetops when the creek we’ve been following (not the same creek from the day before—we don’t want to make it easy for the yagi to track us) empties into a clear lake, and Ram suggests we should rest for a few hours, then maybe try flying.

  I’m in favor of the idea, except possibly for the flying part, but since that won’t be happening for a few hours at least, I scoop leaves into a comfy bed for Ozzie.

  Ram lowers her gently onto the leaves and I get a good look at her for the first time since Ram started carrying her.

  I want to cry.

  The pus on Ozzie’s head has started to bubble and swell in putrid blisters. For the first time I wonder if she’ll make it through the night, never mind the trek past the Black Sea.

  “Maybe we should start flying now,” I look to Ram for guidance.

  He, too, appears horrified by the appearance of Ozzie’s injuries. But he shakes his head. “We need to rest—we all need to rest. Ozzie won’t be up to the flight if she doesn’t lie still a bit. Neither will the two of us.”

  He’s right. In my heart, I know he is, though I don’t like it. Resigned, I make my bed, eat the fish Ram pulls from the lake, brush my teeth, and lie down, just as the sun begins to set.

  *

  It’s dark when I awaken, but the sliver of moonlight is slightly wider and brighter tonight, enough for me to see the festering gouges on Ozzie’s head. Her ribs rise and fall so I know she’s breathing. Her sleep, at least, appears to be undisturbed.

  I glance at Ram. He too is deep in slumber, exhausted from carrying the heavy dog after fighting Ion as a dragon the night before.

  They both need their rest.

  Thirsty, I walk the dozen or more yards from our campsite to the lake, past trees and bushes to the rocky shore, where I scoop water into my mouth and then watch my reflection as the droplets from my hands send concentric circles shimmering away in tiny waves.

  So, this is the face of a dragon, hmm?

  I think of the picture of my mother and wonder what it was like for her, how she managed to fit in at Saint Evangeline’s or if she ever did, and whether I should run back and wake up Ram so we can keep going.

  For Ozzie’s sake, we need to get to my dad as soon as possible. But I’m not sure if I’m ready to change into a dragon, which is kind of a prerequisite for that to happen.

  Not that I wouldn’t do anything to save Ozzie.

  I would. In a heartbeat.

  But changing into a dragon? I guess I can’t quite comprehend how it’s even possible, never mind that I already watched Ion do it.

  Leaves rustle behind me and I turn, half expecting to see Ram checking up on me. A man steps from the bushes, but not from the direction of our camp. The silhouette isn’t as roach-like as the yagi, nor does this man smell like my enemies.

  Faint moonlight shines down in slender beams between the trees. He steps into its silvery light.

  “Ion?” I whisper his name. I don’t reach for the swords at my back, but I’m glad I thought to put them on before making my trek to the lake. It’s not a long walk, but I wanted to be safe.

  “Hey, Ilsa.” He rakes a hand back through his hair and the moonlight hits his face. His cheekbones are angled upward in a way that accentuates his handsome features, and I can’t help wondering if this is a practiced move. “I wanted to apologize for last night.”

  “Oh? The part where you tried to kill me, or the part where you tried to kill me?” I’m trying to sound confident and snarky, but I’m bluffing. I do not feel confident. In fact, I’d be screaming for Ram if it wasn’t for the fact that I’m frightfully curious why Ion would show his face just now. And he did apologize.

  “I wasn’t trying to kill you.” Ion steps closer.

  “Really?” I flex my fingers, ready to grab for my sword, and sniff the air. I don’t smell yagi, but there’s a breeze coming off the lake, so that doesn’t mean they couldn’t be hiding downwind. “You didn’t lure me into a swarm of yagi and laugh while they attacked me?”

  “I wanted you to see that you could fight them, to know how strong you really are.”

  “Rubbish.”

  “You were never in real danger. I didn’t let them touch you.”

  I narrow my eyes as Ion steps closer to me. It’s true, the yagi never touched me. But I’m right sure that had more to do with my swordwork than Ion’s protection. “And the part where you flung me toward the earth?”

  “To keep you out of the fight. Ram was breathing fire.”

  “So were you.”

  “But I kept you out of it. On purpose.” He’s close enough to me now I can see the silver swirling in his gray green-eyes, like mercury pooling, liquid metal. Then he grins that grin that’s way too confident. “If I’d wanted to kill you, you’d have been dead long before the yagi showed up. I want to help you, Ilsa, but you need to trust me.”

  I’m breathing heavily, my whole body tense, staring down Ion and hating the fact that dragons keep telling me to trust them, but none of them have done anything to earn my trust. They keep secrets from me and betray me.

  I shake my head. “I trusted you. You had your shot. You blew it.”

  Ion tips his head to the side. There’s something like pity on his face, and I’m tempted to smack him. But his words still my hand. “You don’t want to be a dragon, do you, Ilsa?”

  I don’t answer aloud, but I can feel some of the tension leaving my body. Okay, so he has my attention now. I don’t know how he knew that—I could barely admit it to myself—but he knows. And he said he wanted to help me.

  He keeps talking, his words smooth. Charming. “You don’t have to be a dragon. We can fix that.”

  “How?”

  “The same way we meld soldiers and roaches. The same power that melds life to life can be used to pull life from life. It’s in your DNA, in your genes, your blood. We eliminate the dragon bits and keep only the human bits.”

  I shudder. That doesn’t sound safe.

  Or wise.

  Or comfortable.

  Ion’s practically purring, his words enticing, saccharine sweet. “We make you human, only human. You could be a real girl. One who belongs.”

  I don’t trust Ion. I don’t. I trusted him last night and that didn’t end well.

  But at the same time, I want to be human.

  I want to belong.

  I don’t want to be a freak any more.

  “Come with me, Ilsa. I only want to help you.” Ion stretches out his hand toward me.

  I look at his hand.

  It looks so normal, so human.

  What do I do? My dad told me to trust Ram. Ram told me Ion is not to be trusted. Ion works with Eudora, who made the yagi. That’s probably who would make me human—a crazy, mad-scientist dragon woman.

  I take a step back, away from Ion, and shake my head. “No.”

  “Ah, but you w
ill.” Ion’s words are a whisper pressed tight to my ear as he lunges, wrapping his arms around me in an instant, pinning my arms to my sides so I can’t reach my swords, burying my face against his chest so I can’t even scream for help.

  I struggle to escape Ion’s grip, but blimey, he’s strong. There’s no way I’m going to be able to get my arms up and grab the swords at my back, but the daggers on my thighs aren’t so much of a stretch. I wriggle and thrash, tugging my hands toward the hilts until finally my right hand reaches one handle.

  Yes, my non-dominant hand, if anyone’s keeping track. Obviously not the best choice, but since Ion’s got my other arm half-twisted behind my back (it’s like he knows that’s my best hand) this is as good as it’s going to get. And I need to hurry. I don’t want him going all dragon on me and carrying me off through the clouds again.

  By throwing myself into him, I manage to jar us just enough to wrench the dagger from its sheath. With a flick of my wrist, I stab the spear toward his belly.

  Ion freezes. “You wouldn’t.”

  I still can’t talk (trust me, if I could talk, I’d have screamed for Ram by now) but I flick my wrist a bit more, jabbing the dagger deeper. I don’t think I’ve broken his skin, or I’d feel a warm gush of blood, assuming dragons bleed. I mean, I bleed when cut, so that doesn’t seem like too much to assume.

  To be honest, I don’t think I can cut him, and I’m not just talking about the moral question of stabbing another human being, even if he is a dragon. I mean I’m pushing the dagger as hard as I can into his belly, but the way we’re standing with my arms pinned under his, and given the angle of the blade against his skin, I can’t push the blade much further, not without risking losing my hold on it.

  And I’m not going to risk that.

  So I let the sharp edge of the knife make my point for me, pressing hard, as hard as I can.

  Ion isn’t squirming. He’s very nearly holding his breath, though. I suspect he doesn’t dare take a deep breath or the edge of my dagger will puncture his skin. Nor can he attempt to change into a dragon for the same reason—I could do all sorts of damage before he got far enough along to fly off with me.

  “I told you I don’t want to hurt you,” Ion reminds me in a clipped whisper.

  I brace my feet against the ground and push toward him. It’s not quite the same as digging the knife in, but it gets my point across—that I will stab him if I have to. If I can.

  But as he readjusts his stance, the pressure on my face eases ever so slightly, and I manage to turn my head to the side. “Ram! Hel—”

  That’s all I get before Ion clamps down. “Big mistake,” he whispers, then barks an order into the shadows beyond the trees. “Attack!”

  Chapter Twelve

  The clatter of yagi fills the air, and with a dreadful sinking sensation, I realize Ion was not alone. The only thing restraining him was his hope for my cooperation. He drags me back toward the camp as the yagi pounce on Ram, who’s on his feet, swords in hand.

  “Let’s watch, shall we?” Ion shifts the way he’s holding me, so I’m facing outward, forced to watch Ram attempting to defend himself against overwhelming odds, the yagi swarming him so closely he hardly has room to swing his blade.

  Horrible.

  I can’t even try to get free from Ion, because the yagi are making that wailing noise again, paralyzing me. But at the same time, my mouth is now free, and I can talk. Apparently the paralysis-inducing noise can’t silence me. I have one burning question I want answered. “Why do you want me alive?”

  “Why should I kill you?”

  “Wouldn’t that be a lot easier?” Even as I’m speaking, yagi hurl themselves at Ram. The moonlight isn’t much brighter than the night before, barely enough to see by, but Ram’s eyes are glowing a fierce blue, and even from this distance, Ion’s eyes give off a faint, silvery glow. So I can see most of the action, and I can tell the yagi are getting uncomfortably close before Ram slashes them away. I wonder about the venom or whatever it is, and cringe at the thought of Ram getting poisoned.

  “Easier, yes. Vastly so. But Ilsa, don’t you know what you mean to me? Can’t you see what you could be to me?” His mouth is close to my ear, his breath heavy, moist against my neck. As he speaks, his hands shift—still holding me tight, clamping my arms to my sides, but now his fingertips press against my waist, grazing my hips, the implication clearer than words. “You and I, Ilsa, we could be the start of a new generation—”

  I don’t need to hear any more. Ram is barely able to keep the yagi at bay, I can’t see Ozzie in the darkness, and Ion’s pawing hands have shifted the balance, spurring me into motion in spite of the yagi’s freezing wails. I spin free, the dagger in my right hand extended toward Ion’s heart as I step back and pull out one sword with my left hand.

  Just as quickly, Ion has a sword in his hand.

  Blimey.

  I leap backward, into the fray. I’d rather fight yagi with Ram than try to match swords with Ion.

  For a few moments, all is chaos, the yagi pressing so close I can’t see what I’m doing. I whip my left arm—the only one with a sword—in the butterfly maneuver, not even bothering to aim, while I slash and jab with the dagger in my right hand. I don’t expect to kill the yagi with the stunted blade. I’m just hoping to keep them from poisoning me with their barbed appendages, spearing me with their horns, or slashing me with their talons.

  We’re fighting in tight range, nearly overwhelmed. I’m not even sure where Ram is until I feel something bump my back. At the same instant, I hear his voice.

  “Keep your back against mine.” It’s Ram. He has a strategy. I feel a surge of hope. With his swords slashing behind me, I don’t have to spin myself dizzy just to keep yagi from sneaking up and spearing me in the back.

  I’m swiping with the sword in my left hand, the way he taught me. Now that he’s at my back, I have a chance to slip the dagger back into the sheath on my thigh, and pull out my other long sword, the metal singing as it should.

  The hybrid henchmen fall back half a step. It’s progress. I decapitate three yagi before Ion intercedes.

  “Ilsa, come with me,” he says, blocking my sword strokes with his blades.

  I try to push his blades away, but he’s too strong for me. I lift my swords higher and try to twist, to swing, block, something, but this is beyond my skill level, and even as he forces my movement to a standstill, the wailing yagi freeze my frame.

  And Ion knows it. He does some sort of fancy flicking thing with his sword, and disarms my right hand, flinging the blade away into the yagi-filled darkness.

  He clamps his hand around my other hand, the one still holding a sword. He angles the blade away from himself, almost behind me, as though to stab Ram if he gets too close.

  I’m panting, knackered already. And, yeah, also completely terrified. Focusing all my strength on moving one body part against the paralyzing sound waves, I slip my empty hand to my hip and wrap my fingers around the hilt of my saber, unsure of my next move, or if I’ll even be able to move. Ram has his hands full with yagi and I still haven’t seen Ozzie. I hope she’s okay. If the yagi got to her again…

  “Come with me, Ilsa. You can be human.”

  “What good would I be to you human?” Unless I completely misunderstood his earlier implications, Ion wants me to bear his dragon babies—something I might have actually considered if he hadn’t proven himself to be a narcissistic bugger who wants to kill me.

  Ion laughs. “More use than dead.”

  As he’s speaking, one of the yagi lunges toward me, horns down to skewer me, and with a jolt of terror that’s enough to free my hand from its frozen state, I pull the saber from my hip, catching the yagi under the chin (not that they really have chins), and slicing its head half off its body before kicking the carcass over.

  Ion still has my left hand tight in his, and now he lunges to grab my right hand as well, but instead of pulling my hand away, I whip the saber around toward him.
Movement begets movement—it seems to be the key to overcoming the paralyzing wails. My sword sings as it whips through the air.

  This is the move that sliced so many round steaks this summer, that freed so many flank steaks from the loin. And it very nearly severs Ion’s ribs, too.

  He releases my hand and leaps back as the tip of the saber grazes his shirt.

  I’d love to feel triumphant at this moment, and it’s great to have the use of my left hand again, but the look on Ion’s face erases any thrill of victory I might feel.

  He is no longer trying to woo me, or even toying with thoughts of letting me live. Cold fury radiates from his face, through his body, and down his blade as he swings it toward me.

  I leap out of the way just in time, half stumbling over a yagi twitching on the ground. There are two more yagi behind me and I swing my blades butterfly style, never mind that one sword is a saber. Their heads roll and I step past them, kicking their bodies toward Ion.

  He leaps over them, through the air toward me, sword raised. I’m still drawing back from kicking the yagi. He’s faster and his blade is coming down toward me. I lean back but his sword is long, far longer than the distance I can lean.

  But at the same moment, I hear a snapping growl behind me and Ozzie leaps over my head, into Ion, into his blade.

  I stumble away over fallen yagi, decapitate two more, spin around to see what’s become of Ion. He’s only got one sword now, as far as I can see.

  Another yagi lunges toward me. I sever its head, my attention mostly on Ion and Ram and Ozzie.

  What happened to Ozzie? The ground is a mass of twitching yagi in the darkness, and I don’t dare look any closer. Ion bounds toward me and I whip my saber back as I dart behind a tree.

  Ion swings his sword.

  I duck behind the tree.

  He sidesteps the tree and swings again.

  I dive behind another tree, but we’re getting closer to the lake, and trees are fewer here. Soon I won’t have anywhere left to hide.

  Ion’s hungry grin says he knows it, too.