Draconic Amnesty

Chapter 3 - Fire

The chasm of her soul lay bare,

atonement waits upon despair,

forgiveness shuns creatures of the air,

watch in silence, of human contact beware.

***

October 2, 2013

Elias pulled himself through the rectangular hole in the siding, then crawled into the dark attic. With his left hand gripping a vertical strut, he balanced on a ceiling joist and allowed his eyes time to adjust.

For Wren’s benefit, he removed a Maglite from the backpack, turned it on, and aimed it at the pull-down stairs. The spring-operated ladder, covered by a thick layer of dust, likely hadn’t unfolded in years. Of course, the house likely hadn’t ever experienced an unauthorized entrance such as this before.

After crawling in behind him, Wren’s knee brushed against the loose-fill insulation. A plume of fiberglass particles clouded the air.

When she coughed, he shined the flashlight directly into her pale face, an unspoken threat, one that she’d best heed if she valued her life.

Her hand covered her mouth, muffling her coughs, and her eyes narrowed in the filtered light.

Satisfied with the brief respite from her noisy awkwardness, he illuminated the attic hatch once more. His enhanced ears listened to the ticking of a grandfather clock in the living room below, to the soft drone of a refrigerator’s automatic defrost mechanism in the adjacent kitchen, to the —

Crunch.

The muted sound came from the kitchen. It was accompanied by skidding, like plastic sliding across linoleum.

According to Wren, the house was empty. Perhaps the owners, too cheap to shell out for the local kennel, left a pet. However, these owners weren’t cheap. The house alone, with its sprawling design and coveted location in Portland’s Hillside neighborhood, proved that much.

He scratched his scruffy beard. One at a time, he amplified various sounds, like using a long-range, wall-bypassing stethoscope. He detected nothing living, other than himself and Wren.

He lowered the attic hatch, wincing at the squeak of unoiled hinges, aware that silence wasn’t a priority, but unable to resist his instincts. After unfolding the rickety ladder, he descended its steps into the gasoline-scented garage and waited.

One parking spot in the two-car garage was empty, while the other boasted a new Aston Martin convertible with amethyst red paint and a V8 engine — just one of the reasons guilt didn’t plague his mind.

He didn’t consider himself a modern day Robin Hood. Not at all. He’d steal from the poor if he had to. Remorse simply didn’t register. His conscience, distorted by childhood experiences, redefined right and wrong. His mind, especially when tortured by drasp withdrawal, traded morality for greed.

The sound of flesh slapping concrete resounded as Wren dropped onto the floor behind him. Why didn’t she wear shoes? Did she think she was a ninja? Even ninjas wore shoes.

Although they’d met only hours earlier (he’d just left Howitzer’s establishment after an unsuccessful attempt to beg for a loan), she clearly wasn’t a Drasper. She lacked the strength, the agility, the perception. She lacked the fire, the edge. She wouldn’t last long in this line of work.

He offered her the Maglite. “Take it. You’ll need it. Follow me closely. Don’t turn on any lights inside the house. In fact, don’t touch anything. Just —”