In The Lair of the Draca (Book 2)

In the Lair of the Draca: (Book 2) Chapter 8-- Offering

Doora, sharp eyes acutely drawn to the clueless prey below her, rode the warm currents of the air as deftly and quietly as a plucked feather. She was just low enough to observe the travelling party as it made its way to Looks Thrice-- and just high enough to remain unnoticed by all of them. Doora's heart quickened with anticipation: her majestic, fifteen-foot wingspan cast eerie shadows upon the creatures of Hallow's Wood. After dipping low over the horrified villages of Hidden Well and Day Break, Doora had circled once or twice and bellowed deeply-- just enough to strike terror into the hearts of bewildered citizens as mothers snatched babies to head for shelter; men and older boys rushed for the storage barns to fetch hatchets, axes, and bow-strings. There were screams and harried cries from parents desperate to know where their children were, in order to shield them from the yellow-taloned grasp of the fearful Draca, who would just as soon snatch a mewling infant as a full-grown woman for Dragura's 10-year-sacrifice.

 Doora dipped snout-first into the plazas of these villages, braying and bellowing her warning cry to hordes of scattered inhabitants as the menacing shadows of her blue-veined wings descended first upon the barns, then the square-shaped lodges, and finally the places of worship. Powerful muscles bunched in her rear legs, which she kept drawn tightly to her pale-bellied abdomen for the benefit of near-perfect, streamlined flight, as hasty bonfires were erected throughout the villages and fanned by scrabbling crowds; fearless and determined though they were, the Draca hated fire above all else, and the Evening Folk knew it.

Still, it was not the denizens of Hidden Well and Day Break that Doora was after. Her birth mother, Dragura-- Doora's own flesh and blood-- demanded her ritual sacrifice, and this time she had specifically requested the weak-hearted Sashek. No longer would a hapless infant or golden-haired maiden be enough to placate her; Sashek had managed to evade Dragura for more than twenty years, and she was furious. No one, much less some sprightly woman from the poor villages who thought she was special and protected, would get the best of her!

A single, crystalline tear sparkled from the corner of one almond-shaped eye (greener than even Dragura's) as Doora swung low; tendons rippled with strength at the junction of her shoulder and wing bones as she made the transition from open air into the relative obscurity of Hallows Wood. Here, she would perch and ponder, studying the activity of those she pursued for a few moments longer before sweeping in low and completing her catch; the willow-bodied Sashek would never have a chance-- and for that, Doora wept.

Alighting on one of the red-blossomed branches of the highest tree she could find, Doora fluttered her wings and drew them in close, folding them neatly atop her scale-studded back. There she lurked, almost perfectly camouflaged by the verdant greenery that surrounded her, erect and poised like a reptilian bird guarding a nest of eggs. Doora cursed herself; she always had, and her sisters as well. Doora was not the same as the earth-draga who prowled the forests, creeping stealthily throughout the brush for a young girl to ambush. Despite their intelligence, they were still primitive and backward. They had no feelings, no empathy, and their blood ran cooler than ice. The water-draga were no different. Although the latter preferred to hide themselves below the clear ripples of the streams and lakes, nosing about for vegetation and ocean-weed along the murky bottoms of the sea, they would just as soon surface beside a canoe and snatch the riders for a quick meal as look at them-- and neither earth-draga nor water-draga sung or spoke with beautiful voices, as the Draca did.

Doora's dragon-like appearance hid the warmth that filled her heart like blood, obscured the maternal way she could cradle an infant with her snout and gentle paws, and masked the highly intelligent curiosities and longing that plagued the Draca from the first breath of air beyond the shell. Why did things grow? Why did water sparkle? What had made Weema so special as to be blessed with two baleful, red moons...and why had the gods, or goddesses, or whomever dwelt in the heavens, chosen to allow the Draca such tender feelings, all the while permitting them to suffer emotionally from birth until death? Their hapless, horrified mothers did not love them. Their cunning fathers took advantage of these poor Evening folk and cared little for their own offspring. Left in the carnage of these unholy unions were the lost, bewildered Draca of Weema, almost all of whom had led fearful, anxious, solitary existences in the dark forests of their home world-- until Dragura had become a mother.