Draconic Amnesty

Chapter 8 - Questions

In a fetal position on a patch of dry leaves, Wren allowed her scales to work. She didn’t so much as allow them as succumb to their insistent demand for self-preservation. Fortunately, her wounds were minor, bruises mostly, and the healing completed in a matter of seconds.

It was enough time, however, for Cole to inject himself with drasp, her own blood derivative, one of the two syringes she’d intended for Elias’s use. Her annoyance with the brazen assailant didn’t falter when he collapsed onto his back, arms spread-eagle, taut fingers clutching at dirt like the unsteady claws of a dragonling.

He deserved it. Maybe next time he’d ask for permission before stealing something that didn't belong to him. She chose to ignore the irony, perhaps the hypocrisy, of her thought.

Clambering onto her hands and knees, feigning discomfort, she crawled to Elias. “Are you ok?”

“What does it look like?” He propped himself up onto one elbow and reached a mangled hand toward the remaining dose. His fingers — if they could be called that; they twisted like the gnarled bones of a half-eaten mammal — wouldn’t close around the syringe.

“You need to inject me,” he said. With her assistance, he managed to lean his back against a deformed tree, one with a bloody depression not far above his head. It looked as if a red dragon melted unskinned carcasses there, just enough for viscera to boil into the cambium without charring.

“What about Cole?” A glance confirmed that the man, his mouth agape and his eyes reflecting the stars, wouldn’t be moving anytime soon. However, she asked the question anyway, if only to maintain her pretense of normalcy.

“He’s a rookie.” Elias studied his own forearm, blood-caked and limp across his right leg. “And a fool. Probably never done anything stronger than heroin cut with brick dust. Now hurry up.”

She nabbed the remaining syringe from Cole’s open palm. The catatonic man didn’t so much as bat an eyelash, the slight movement of his chest being the only sign of life.

“Where?” she asked. This time, she didn’t need to pretend ignorance. There was no sign of a vein anywhere amidst the scars and scabs.

“Just try.” He rasped, likely on the verge of passing out. “I’ll say when you hit one.”

“Ok.” Her first attempt drew no response, positive or negative, from him. So, she assumed she missed. She tried again and again. Each time, he simply stared with the disinterest of a cat watching television. Yuki owned a cat, one that did not regurgitate hairballs, at least not in her presence.

“Don’t ever become a nurse.” His speech came out more like a sigh.

“I can’t do this, Elias.” Each stab cracked through encrusted blood like caramel on crème brûlée, her favorite dessert after Yuki introduced it to her last year.

“Oh ya?” He glared at her, a knowing gaze. “Like how you couldn't open the safe but managed to melt the fuck out of it?”

“I —” She shifted her eyes away. “That was different.”

“You sure as hell didn’t use a Zippo lighter.” His weary tone evaporated with the rising heat of his anger.

“I never said I used a lighter.” She met his eyes, her own defensiveness spurred by the verbal attack.

“You never say a lot of things.” He spat on the ground, pink saliva. “You’re either incompetent or you’re hiding something big. I suspect it’s both. And you know what?” He moved to rise. “I can do without this bullshit.”

“No!” She pressed down on his left shoulder, unbalancing him, forcing him back onto his butt. Using her other hand, she ripped out her eyebrow stud and stuffed it into her pocket. After wiping away the trickle of blood on her eyelid, she let her scales cover the wound.