Battle Ground, Indiana
Claire awoke to incessant squawking. The annoyance drifted through her open window along with the sun, whose pesky rays were too bright for her aching head. No question about it, hangovers were the worst.
She rolled over to relieve her sore muscles, and despite the humidity, snuggled deeper under her lavender comforter. She was drifting off again when more squawking jolted her awake. "Shuup," she slurred, trying to ignore the damn things. Her mom's chickens frequently bickered. But what did she care for chicken squabbles when she was comfortably tucked away in her palace of solitude.
Her bedroom was more like a library than anything, its walls covered with hundreds of books. When she started collecting them, there were only a few shelves. As her collection grew, more were mounted, until every bit of wall space was occupied. Her mother called it hoarding, but she begged to differ.
By high school, she had made shelves from all the reclaimed wood in the barn. At that point, her mom put a stop to it. "No more shelves in your bedroom!" she insisted. "You've got enough books." All further construction projects were forbidden.
How could anyone have enough books? She still managed to sneak in a few more. At last it seemed her room did have a limit, and she was determined to reach it, down to the final book.
It wasn't until her parents bought her an iPad that she finally agreed to go digital. However, nothing would replace the experience of holding a real book: the smell of the paper, the feel of the pages, and the excitement of reading cover to cover.
She groaned dramatically and flung away her comforter. The squawking reached its peak. She threw herself from her bed to close the window—and froze. There was a naked man in the chicken coop.
"Oh my God," she breathed. Memories from the night before flashed through her mind like a bad dream. That's why she felt terrible.
Renaissance Man was failing miserably at the task of chicken catching. His movements were sloppy as he chased the hens and roosters around the coop. His wound hindered him, but he did not stop trying. He limped and stumbled around with outstretched arms. Meanwhile, the chickens squawked and screeched, protesting in earnest, but moved effortlessly out of his way.
It would have been hilarious had it not been so pathetic. Even still, the longer she watched, the harder she laughed, until she couldn't take it any more. Quickly dressing into her favorite pair of black stretchy-pants, she rushed downstairs.
When she reached the coop—much to her surprise—he'd successfully procured one of the fatter female hens. His hand wrapped around its neck, about to end the poor thing's life.
"Stop," she roared. "What are you doing?" Her mom would kill her if a single, precious chicken was harmed. He looked dazed and confused by her shouting. "Those chickens are for eggs, not for eating, you oaf!"
"I need food," he said at last, holding the clucking chicken forward. So...he could speak. That was a good sign. But his accent....
When she made no move to take the chicken, he released it to the ground still wearing a puzzled look. He cocked his head to the side, watching her, trying to make sense of the situation. Then he looked down at his naked body as if suddenly realizing it, and used his hands to cover himself. She snorted. As if she hadn't seen male goods before!
"Where are my clothes?"
"Look, come out of there. I'll get you something to wear." Beckoning, she recovered his blanket. He quickly wrapped it about himself, but not before she glimpsed the black skin creeping from beneath his bandages. Skin wasn't supposed to act like this. Whatever it was, it was spreading quickly.
He looked at her, eyes narrowed. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he clutched at his neck and began looking around. "Where are they?" he whispered. "I had them here. Where..." His scowl depend. "Where are my belongings? Where is my Sverak—my sword?"
There was no, "Thank you for saving my life." No, "What happened last night?" No gratitude. There was only fear and distrust.
She humored him and held up her hands. "Look, chill. I've got everything inside."
He exhaled and gave a brief nod.
"What's up with those stone-things, anyway?" she asked after taking him inside and handing back the leather pouch he now tied around his neck. "They're pretty creepy. Wanna know what they did to me?"
"You looked at them?" What little color he had drained from his face.
"Duh. Why wouldn't I?"
"You should not have done that." He clutched the pouch firmly against his chest. The thought of her actions clearly agitated him.
"It was an accident. Nothing happened, all right?" That wasn't necessarily true. Strange things had happened, leaving her thoroughly freaked out. It took a moment, but he nodded, putting the subject to rest.
Since she'd trashed his clothing, she raided her dad's closet. She found a T-shirt and sweatpants large enough for a man of his muscular stature, even though the pants were about three inches too short. Once he was dressed, she escorted him into the kitchen to cook breakfast. At first he didn't talk.
"Can you at least tell me your name?" she asked after placing a glass of orange juice in front of him.
He drank half the glass in a couple of gulps before speaking, "Cyrus. My name is Cyrus."
"Nice to meet you, Cyrus. I'm Claire."
"Well met, my lady."
She snorted. My lady? This guy....
Cyrus drained the remainder of his orange juice before turning his regard to her. "Can I trust you, Claire?" His gaze was intense, as if he tried to glean the answer from the depths of her mind. Out of nowhere, her headache multiplied ten-fold.
She gasped, clutching her head. "Really?" she bit out through clenched teeth. "You want to know if I'm trustworthy after all this?" He was the one who couldn't be trusted. "If it weren't for me, you'd be dead."
As quickly as it'd hit her, her headache receded. At the same time, his eyes widened. He looked down at his bandages then back at her. "This was you?"
"Duh! Who else do you think chased you out into a cornfield in the middle of the night?"
"I—I did not think. I'm quite hungry."
"Yeah, yeah." She went back to the frying pan to stir the egg scramble she'd concocted.
At least he looked at her differently now, impressed by her kindness, or perhaps by her ability to save his life. All the same, he was a man of few words, so he said nothing else. It made him much more mysterious. Who didn't love a mystery man? Especially one so devilishly handsome.
As she cooked, she wondered what he was hiding. She wanted answers. It was a challenge, but she restrained herself from questioning him. If he was anything like her on an empty stomach, she didn't want to make him hangry.
His Sverak was reattached to his waist. Her mother would've had a fit seeing an armed stranger in their home. "You don't need to wear that around the house, you know."
"I do apologize, my lady. I assure you, it is for our safety that I wear it."
She opened and closed her mouth, then fell silent. Safety? What safety? Were they in danger? Was the coat rack going to come alive and strangle them? She had a feeling that if she pressed the matter, she'd receive nothing more than an incoherent grumble, so she rushed to finish her culinary masterpiece.
Her dad always told her, "Food is the way to a man's heart—you remember that Claire Bear." She plated a healthy portion of scrambled eggs with sausage, bell peppers, and onion. Two slices of toast popped up just in time. She buttered them and plopped them down beside the eggs.
"I'm not crazy, am I?" she asked, handing him his plate, half expecting him to tell her that he was the sole survivor of a plane crash.
"Pardon me?"
"I know what I saw last night."
"Which was?"
"I saw a dragon fall from the sky. I know it. But all I found was you. Tell me I'm not crazy."
"No, you are not crazy." He picked up his fork.
"I knew it! So you can turn into a dragon!" What fantasy-loving-book-nerd didn't grow up wishing dragons were real? Perhaps this dragon-man wasn't an inconvenience after all. In fact, now he was the most interesting person in the world.
"May I eat now?" His voice was flat.
"Oh...fine." She plopped down next to him with a cup of coffee and bowl of oatmeal. She always ate oatmeal for breakfast. It was her thing—old fashioned oats with two heaping teaspoons of brown sugar and a handful of blueberries. She struggled to eat with him beside her, mostly propping her chin on her hand to watch him.
Cyrus inhaled food like a vacuum cleaner. It was gone in minutes. On the other hand, she was only a few bites in.
"Is there any more?"
Her jaw dropped. "You're still hungry?"
"Yes, please."
She chewed on her lower lip. "All right, Cyrus, how about this. I'll give you more food if you give me answers."
He stared at her for several moments. "Very well. As you wish."
The second and third time around, he didn't eat nearly as quickly, nor as much. However, by the time he was finished, she had gone through the entire carton of eggs, five large sausages, two bell peppers, and six slices of toast. The man must have spent a fortune on food.
He set his fork down for good and went to the kitchen window. She watched him, her eyes tracking his every movement. He didn't look at anything specific, he simply fixed his gaze on the yard outside. The longer he stood, the more impatient she grew.
"You agreed," she said at last. "Answers for food."
The curtains fell back into place and he turned to her. "Very well. Ask your questions."
Her heart thumped. She gave him her biggest smile as he took up his seat and watched her. She returned his regard. His eyes were so pretty. They were dark brown with flecks of gold that sparkled when they caught the light. The longer she looked into them, the more inhuman they appeared. "What exactly are you?" she blurted. "A shapeshifter? A Dragon? What?"
"I am a Drengr."
"A—a what?" Her eyebrows pulled together.
He gave a long, tired exhale. "I am a Drengr," he repeated. "A dragon blessed with humanity. Those of my race possess the ability to shift into humans. Be not mistaken, we are more dragon than human."
"There are others like you?"
"Yes, many."
Goosebumps prickled her skin. How could it be that dragon shapeshifters existed and no one knew about them? If a single person found out, wouldn't it be all over social media? Facebook, Instagram, something? It seemed impossible to keep something this monumental quiet. "So...where have you guys been hiding?"
"Hide?" He laughed. "We do not hide. We rule."
"You—but..."
"I am not from your world. I suspect that's why none of your people know about me. I live in the kingdom of Dragonwall. That's my home, not here, wherever this gods-forsaken place is." He looked around him, as if trying to gain clues.
She realized her mouth was hanging open. "What the hell is Dragonwall?"
"Dragonwall is the kingdom I come from, just as I said."
"Yes, yes. I got that." She tried to process what he'd said. Was it possible he was lying? She'd seen the dragon, saw it fall from the sky, saw the trail of flame. If the dragon was real, Dragonwall had to be real. "Okay. Let's just say for a moment that I believe you. If you're from Dragonwall, which, presumably, is not anywhere on Earth, how did you get here?" She jabbed her finger towards the ground.
"Through the Gate."
"The...Gate," she repeated, blinking at him.
"Aye." He nodded. "A portal."
She sat still, turning it over. Maybe they were both crazy. That was a possibility, right?
"You came here from a portal known as the Gate," she repeated, yet again. If she said it enough, would that make it real?
"Yes, Claire. The Gate." He glanced toward the windows again; he'd been doing that a lot. "In Dragonwall, it is illegal to use any Gate, punishable by death."
"Any? So...there are more than one? Let me guess, someone tried to kill you for using a portal. That's why you're hurt."
"No. I am hurt because I am being hunted."
Her eyes widened. She opened her mouth—
"The portal was a last resort. A means to an end." He clutched the pouch around his neck. "It seemed like a good idea at the time. Now I realize what folly it was."
Her stomach dropped. She pointed an accusing finger at him, at the pouch around his neck. "You're being hunted for those stone-things, aren't you? Someone is after them."
"Yes, for the Stones. And it is not someone trying to kill me, but rather, something. A number of somethings."
"Some-thing?" she whispered, as if the somethings might hear them. "Something is hunting you and you're using my house as a hiding place?!" She began shaking her head. "Oh, no. I don't think so. Are you crazy? That will lead them here!"
"A valid possibility."
"But...but..."
"I thank you for your hospitality, my lady." Reaching into his coin pouch, he placed several golden coins on the breakfast bar in a neat little stack. They were the size of half-dollar coins, and twice the thickness.
"Um," she squeaked. "What are those for? Are you...are you trying to...to bribe me?"
"For your help and your silence. I trust that you will keep my identity, my being here, a secret—for your safety as well as mine."
Her forehead furrowed. "We don't even use money like that. What am I supposed to do with it?"
"Gold has no value?"
"Gold, like real gold?"
Cyrus nodded. She wasn't sure what to say to that. Could she toughen-up enough? Was it worth it?
"Eight gold dragons. Genuine. They are all I have to give."
She considered her large pile of student loans. University educations didn't come cheap. Certainly not hers. How much would this gold fetch?
"But...what if the somethings come back?" she asked.
"I hope they do not. If they do, I will protect you."
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. While she appreciated his gallant offer of protection, she didn't know him well enough to trust him.
"Your silence?" he prompted, assessing her with his gaze. She swallowed. Silence wasn't a problem. What would she say? Guess what world, dragons do exist because one fell out of the sky last night. And the real kicker? He's a shapeshifter.
No, silence wouldn't be an issue at all. She sighed. "All right. I won't say anything. You have my word."
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