Page 3 of Dragon Unhinged

It seems impossibly stupid to be feeding him the instructions on where to hit, where he might be able to hurt, but I know that if there’s not blood seeping from my tourmaline-colored scales before this fight is done, they may force me to stay here, shifted, to fight again until their bloodlusts are satisfied.

Marcel lowers his head slightly, a subtle nod, and then he lunges, claws spread wide. I try to ignore how gaunt he looks as he flies through the air at me, sinking his claws and teeth into my scales. I don’t want to hurt him, I want to get us out of here and to help him find a way to heal or find a better way to meet up with his mate again. A more kind way.

I whip my head around, working to shake him loose, but not without ensuring those sharp points rip through a few more scales and flesh on his way to the ground. His claws tearing through my body should hurt, it should make me scream, but it’s almost a relief against the rest of the pain I’ve been enduring.

This would hardly be a fair fight, even if he wasn’t mourning his loss, even if he weren’t so despondent.

Tigers are strong and fierce, but dragons are much bigger and have a lot more advantages. They’ve probably sent him here to die. Get their money’s worth and dispose of his carcass when it’s over.

Still, I take my time, guiding Marcel to a couple more well-placed attacks. Each time he draws blood, each time his claws sink into me, my dragon shrieks to end him, but I know what these people want.

They crave brutality. They desire animalistic rage. They create and destroy monsters.

We grapple for a few more minutes, a quick dance I choreograph on the fly, giving him every move just before we make it, until finally, I give Marcel and the spectators what they both want.

I snap his neck under my talons and raise my head to the sky, shooting a blast of fire several yards above me, signifying to even the most obtuse in the crowd my victory.

It’s short lived, though, as a new spell falls over the ring.

The loser may die, but the victor’s award is a painful, jolting sleep that tears me from my dragon once more.

I know I’ll wake up again in that damned cage, and I can’t help but feel a little bit of jealousy at Marcel’s release and freedom.

Find your mate, Marcel, and find the peace you deserve. It’s my last thought before I go under.

Chapter

Two

BRIANNA

My father’s usual hustling and bustling entrance snaps me out of my book. He’s barking orders at the steward, his personal assistant, and the chef. He’s complaining about anything that and everything to keep “the help” in their place. He’s a tyrant who loves to demean people when they don’t meet his unreachable standards of perfection.

I am the least perfect in this house and take the brunt of his wrath.

And if he’s back, that means they’re back too.

I stare at the page, trying to pick up where I got interrupted, but it’s no use. With the knowledge that my father’s home, I can’t help but wonder who survived and came back. Did any of them? Is that why he’s in such a bad mood? Did they lose?

The world exploded in panic and awe when a dragon shifter swooped into a live morning show in New York City. Conversations, tabloids, news reports, social media all blew up with the revelation that dragons were real. Not just dragons, but dragon shifters. I don’t know how many times I watched a man dive off a building and shift into an amazing dragon in the stretch of only a few seconds. It was incredible and unbelievable.

Then the reveal there are other creatures out there with different abilities, different shifters, other magic, and whatever else drew humans to the long historic tradition of gathering pitchforks and torches to storm the castle and kill the monster.

I, however, had already gone through the five stages of dealing with the fact the supernatural is real when I learned what he’s keeping in the basement. Or should I say dungeon? Seems more fitting when there’s a dragon.

Of course, when the morning show blew up the world, I had to act shocked and scared. AnOscarwinning performance if I do say so myself.

My father’s obsession with capturing, caging, and controlling the supernatural has been going on for a few years, before the rest of the world found out. I don’t know how he learned about them before everyone else, but he’s a politician, and they always seem to know about all the seedy underground highly immoral things that are happening. It brought him to the doorstep of the equivalent dog and cock fights, only he’s controlling magical creatures, which no doubt gives his narcissistic bulging ego a good stroke.

I would give anything to get out of this house, away from his tyranny and his control over me. Something, I’m sure the poor shifters in the dungeon relate to since they’re magically bound to him and his desires, while I give my father the fake sense of security that he has me under his control. I move to the window seat where I can overlook the long drive to our house, watching with bated breath as black cars pull in.

The custom trucks, made with magic and steel to haul creatures that could only be pulled out of fiction, lumber around the circle drive to the path that goes alongside the house, disappearing into the underground garage. The shifters have returned. Not that I’m supposed to know what’s in there. Helikes to think I’m naïve and innocent. Or more likely, dumb and gullible.

Little does my father know or understand being his daughter means I know a lot more, because ignorance isn’t bliss. I’ve been caught unaware plenty of times in my life. Not anymore. Never again if I can help it.

A few years ago, my father was raging at his then head of his security while my brother just stood by his side smirking, amused that someone else was getting berated no doubt. I heard words I know I wasn’t supposed to hear and I certainly didn’t understand them at the time. Dragons, shifters, wolves, magic, cuffs, fights. None of it made sense at the time. Slowly and carefully, I began to spy on my father and my brother, trying to fit the pieces together. The words were too terrifying to be true. A dragon? It had to be code or something. Whatever it was, I knew that I wouldn’t like it, and it would make me even angrier at my father than I was most days.

Eventually, I watched enough to get the code to the keypad leading down to the basement. From the basement, I found another door that was only locked. A few internet videos later and I had enough theoretical lock picking skills to make most thieves jealous. It took me a few days and lots and lots and lots of tries, but finally, it clicked. The stairs led to a space below the underground garage that I didn’t know existed. It looked like it belonged in another time, in another world. Runes were carved around the doorways, windows, and bigger ones on the ceiling and floor. There was a hallway of six doors.

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