The Dragon Games

Nine

SIX YEARS LATER...

In the kingdom of Scaldril, if you want to know how prosperous an area is, just look at how flammable its buildings are. At the heart of the capital, Castle Arragon was constructed entirely of hydra glass, partly to ward off dragon attacks, mostly to ensure the high nobility never suffered long without a shiny surface to admire their in-bred reflections. Half a mile away, the stone buildings began, reserved for a less intolerable class of people – the merchants, doctors, and clergies – yet still not entirely tolerable. That word could only describe the people living on the outskirts of the city wall, where the rickety wooden buildings rattled against each other with every breath of wind.

By day, peasants and serfs flocked the narrow cobblestone streets. By night, they barricaded their doors and bolted their shutters in vain attempts to keep out the raiders – a group of criminals marked by a ram's skull tattooed across their neck. Some called the raiders the downfall of good society. Regan Black called them good fun. Used to, that is. Lately, the crew felt more like a prison than a home, a fat green wart on the tip of her nose. Today being Friday didn't help.

Every Friday, Drax, the captain of the raiders, sent one of his cronies to collect spoils from the raiders – even tonight, the night before their biggest job yet. Still, no one complained. As if Drax's name wasn't deterrent enough, his dragon prowled across the rooftops, the wooden panels crying under its six-ton weight. No one wanted or needed a reminder of why the dragon was named Handeater, least of all Regan. Her code name was reminder enough. They called her Nine, after her chomped off finger. Gods forbid she catches Handeater's attention again, and they start calling her Eight.

"You're short."

Regan's head jerked up. The crony had stopped in front of Auntie, rattling her sparse bag. It was the worst part of spoils. Someone gets their teeth kicked for missing quota, and the rest of them have to stare ahead, doing their best impersonation of a deaf man as their fellow raider cries, begs, and screams for help. To interfere was suicide, and if Regan's childhood gave her anything, it was the life motto, 'better their neck than mine.' But Regan was short on allies at the moment, and as the only girls in the crew, she and Auntie had an understanding to watch each other's backs.

"Sorry." Regan stepped forward, lifting her bag. "I was holding on to her share. Accidentally got it all mixed up with mine."

The crony rooted through Regan's bag, which was worth enough to cover both of their quotas — and not one copper more. "This is all you have?"

"Ay."

He squinted at her, his beetle-black eyes boring into her gray. "Are you sure, Nine?"

What, did he want her spleen, too? Swallowing her annoyance, Regan lowered her eyes, making her shoulders small and hunched.

"I'm real sorry," Regan said. "I'll try doing better next week, I swear."

The crony sent her a foul look but moved on, letting Regan leave for her tenement in peace. She rented a small chamber on the top floor, bare except for a bed, a nightstand, some toiletries, and random articles of clothing scattered across the floor. Regan kicked off her boots, then reached into her jacket's hidden pocket, freeing a bag twice as heavy as the one she had given the crony. She scanned the floor until her eyes landed on an off-colored wooden panel, but when she pried it loose, the space hidden below was empty. Frowning, she pressed her cheek against the floor and stretched into the darkness, her fingers scraping the hole's edges.

"Looking for this?"

Regan jerked up, a cold shot of fear jolting through her. For a second, she only saw her empty chamber. Then the air rippled, and a cloak hit the floor, revealing a burly man covered head to toe in tattoos. One hand held her missing satchel, stuffed to the seams with coins. The other held a candle. Regan's eyes darkened. Drax. Drax had recently taken ownership of three things: the raiders, Handeater, and a cloak more valuable than the dragon and raiders combined. It was fashioned from dragon-scales dipped in wyvern blood and could completely camouflaged its wearer to the human eye.

"I've heard rumors you were holding out on me," Drax said. "But I didn't need Auntie to tell me that."

Regan's jaw ticked, but she said nothing. So much for girl power.

"You think I wouldn't notice that when Sammy left, he took half your talent with him?" Drax lowered her satchel to the candle, flame licking the leather. "That you've had one foot out the door? That you've gotten greedy?"

"I got my quota, just like everyone else--"

"Did I say you could talk?"

She shut her mouth, falling silent as the reek of smoke filled her chamber. The anger in her eyes burned as bright as her satchel. This wasn't about right and wrong. This was about power, about proving that he owned her, that he could squash her like a bug.

"Let me remind you where you come from." Drax tossed her satchel out the window, setting the trash below ablaze. Months of labor, gone in seconds. "Before us, you were nothing. Just another worthless orphan, destined for the whore house or off a bridge. And now, you think you can up and leave? That you owe us nothing?" He sneered when she stayed silent. "Well? What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Nothing," Regan said to the floor. "I have no excuses, only apologies."

Drax sneered. "It's a wonder the Raiders lasted so long in Sammy's hands, the wag-tailed fop."

At the mention of Sammy's name, Regan looked up, her shoulders stiffening.

"You're lucky I haven't cut the dead weights yet," Drax said, "all the fools Sammy was too soft to get rid of."

"Ay," Regan said. "I'd weep if we lost everyone's favorite new captain."

It took a second for Drax to work out the insult. Then red bloomed across his face. His hand shot out, and an invisible force grabbed her neck, slamming her into the wall. While Regan hung from the air, her toes grazing the ground, Drax strode closer, til she could see nothing but the black pooling in his eyes.

Everyone's Divine felt different. Some Divine felt cool and warm, like dipping your hand in a pool of honey. Some Divine was feather light and made you break into uncontrollable giggles. Drax's Divine felt like white hot spikes slicing into your skin. But Regan couldn't make him release her by force. Her hold on the Divine was nowhere near his skill level. Returning to the meek yes-sir, my-pleasure-sir routine that had kept her alive these past few months was her best defense, but now that she had finally spoken her mind, she couldn't stop.

"You know what Sammy will do to you when he returns?" Regan rasped around his tightening chokehold. "He—"

The invisible hand clenched, squeezing her throat within an inch of her life. The room spun. Black spots appeared in her vision. Just when she thought she would black out, she was released. She fell to her hands and knees, wheezing and gasping. Seven hells, it was embarrassing, a bigger blow to her pride than neck. Drax made her feel like a scrawny ten year old again, powerless and weak.

"Lose the ego," Drax hissed. He straightened up, leaning away from her. It seemed there were some lines he wouldn't cross – at least, not the eve of their biggest job yet. "After tomorrow, I'll be a rich man. And you?" He sneered wide, revealing rows of gold-plated teeth. "If you think you have it bad now, I'll teach you what suffering really means."