Dragonproof - 1. Chapter 1

Considering the amount of waiting I have to do in my life, one might think I'd be more patient than I am. Don't let anyone ever tell you that a stakeout is exciting. In fact, laugh in their face and walk away should you be asked to join in such an adventure. Stakeouts are boring and tedious—you do your best to not slip into a coma while you hope something important or relevant will occur. Not exciting. You should have the same reaction should anyone ask you on an adventure. Sure, you may have some neat memories, but we humans are nostalgic and tend to block out all the horrible crap that happens when adventuring.

Tonight I was both bored and nervous. My stomach grumbled, and my cup of coffee had gone cold some time ago. I don't understand people who like iced coffee; it isn't natural. It's natural for it to go cold over time, but not to enjoy it that way. I was was subjecting myself to the discomfort of a stakeout because for some reason there were odd things roaming the streets: legends, folk tales and things that were told to children to make them behave. Monsters, in short. The world isn't short of monsters; one needs to look no farther than humans to understand that. It didn't stop with humans, though. Not by a long shot. But these monsters...they weren't supposed to be real.

I'd have to be the one to stop them, too. Go, me.

Of course, I'm not supposed to be real, either. My kind, a deviation from the average human genome, prefers to be referred to as the Magi; the wise. But the truth was we weren't all that wise, and I hadn't yet met a mage that was better than the average human. We aren't all that common, as a species, and the talent for the art tends to run in families. What sets us apart from others is the ability to channel and focus magic, for lack of a better term.

Magic is an elemental force just like gravity. It is as natural as earth, fire, air or water and just as abundant. The major difference is the relative few who can sense and harness it and turn it to an instrument of their will. Staying in the shadows tends to protect us from the 'burn the witch' types and so, as a rule, we try not to draw attention to ourselves or our talents. Someone or something was breaking that rule. I'm not a great believer in rules, since they seem to be broken with impunity in the name of convenience, but this was different.

This whole mess had started with the death of a child. While I wouldn't say I particularly like children, there is something hard wired into a lot of people, probably evolutionary, to protect them. I'd been watching a news clip, and the camera had focused on the wailing mother of the child. It seems news cameras tend to do things like that. It's almost like a rule: 'Find the one crying and record them.' The mother had spun a wild story about an old woman with horns who'd been shoving her screaming child into a bag of some kind. The body was found only a few blocks away next to one of the major water drainage pipes that empty into the Hudson river. What was left was mostly bones.

I'd started my hunt then, realizing this wasn't a case for conventional police work. I wasn't the most appropriate choice for the job, but I was likely the only one who recognized the danger. There were only so many major entry points into the drainage systems, so I'd staked out the one nearest where the bones had been found for several nights. For one glorious moment I was proven right. From my perch on the cold stone steps, I watched as a shadow shambled into view. As it moved down the block, its gait was slow but not unsure or unsteady. It plodded along in the cool evening, one of the first of Autumn, and hummed a tune under its breath that was unrecognizable. I stepped back deeper into the shadows of the portico as the humming figure drew slowly closer.

The figure passed through a puddle of light under a dim streetlight. In that glimpse I knew that Hugo'd been right, and fear clenched around my heart. Why was it here? How was it here?

'Here' is Troy, New York. It was originally populated by the Mohawk tribe. The Dutch were a major influence in the early 1600s until the English made war on them and took the area for themselves. As with most eastern chunks of land in the new world, people of all sorts flocked in to find work and make their fortunes, and they brought all their troubles, legends and folklore with them.

In this case, it was a Babaroga. I doubt that means much to anyone in the modern world—until recently it meant nothing to me. In fact most of the monsters that were used to scare children into behaving had been outgrown and forgotten by the population at large. The monsters, though, hadn't forgotten us. We did get a few things wrong about some of them, but the major thing to remember is they think we're food. Babarogas weren't like the Sidhe, vampires or other real monsters. They were supposedly just legends. Many monsters like the tender flesh of children, but Babarogas sought out that meat exclusively—and this one had been hungry lately.

I waited, muscles tensing as she approached the three-story walk-up across the street. Like most old row houses, there were at least three families living in it–more if there was a basement apartment or if they were migrant workers. My research – which amounted to walking by the area in the morning when people walked their younger kids to school and the older children waited for the school bus – had informed me that this was a block with a lot of kids on it. I'd made my rounds in the afternoon, as well, when kids would be getting home from school. This place had a young family on the second floor.

And that is why a pro like me sets a trap in front of just such a building.

Mentally I encouraged her to step a little farther forward, into my trap. My eyes narrowed and my breath quickened as the sound of her shuffling footsteps reached my ears. She toddled to a stop, and one gnarled hand reached up and pulled her shawl from around her shoulders and free of the top of her head, revealing the short, thick horns on her head.

I blinked. It was one thing to hear about a creature that resembled an old grandmother with horns, yet an entirely different experience to see an old grandmother. With horns.

She shuffled slightly, turning in a slow circle. She lifted her nose in the air and actually sniffed. Did she smell me? My trap? Or was she looking for a child? Whether by chance or design, she turned away from my trap, approached the side of the brick building and, to my amazement, began to climb.

Holy shit. These things can climb walls?

Now I had to make a quick decision. I hurried across the street, raising my staff as I did, and spoke a few quick words. The sigils on my staff glowed briefly in response, focusing my will, and a torrent of wind whipped down the face of the building. The Babaroga was engulfed in the whipping air, the tatters of her dress snapping, and yet her grip on the wall seemed to be unaffected. With a gasp I let the spell go, feeling drained at the massive amount of energy I'd expended. I looked up to find the monster's eyes looking down on me and a gleeful grin across her unlovely face. She turned and began to climb again. I watched for a moment to try and figure out where she was headed, knowing I'd have to be fast. She stopped and looked into a second floor window and then began working on the window frame.

With a curse, I bounded up the steps to the front door of the building. I pulled a slim card from a pocket and slid it between the doors, moving the latch back. These old buildings are long on old world architecture and short on modern day security. I pushed the heavy glass and wood door open and began climbing the stairs two at a time, grabbing the railing and using it to haul me ever faster. I hit the first landing and spun, holding the railing tight as a pivot point, and launched myself up the next flight of stairs.

On the second floor I paused in front of the apartment door, swiped my card again and shoved the door. The dark apartment was quiet except for the sound of a fan blowing behind a closed door, probably a bedroom. I assumed the fan would be for an adult, something to help them sleep, and I stalked forward to listen for a door without that whirring sound. One door in the hallway was open, and I could see the porcelain of a sink. Another was closed fast, and I pressed up close to listen. No whirring. I reached into a pocket, grasped the spell-bound salt in one hand, and pushed the door open with the other.

The Babaroga whipped its head toward me and hissed through rotten teeth. It spun and lifted its bag over its head, intending to bring it down to snatch the child up and carry it away for later consumption.

“Ventus parvus,” I said and blew on my palm. The salt flew like tiny crystallized daggers, boring into the monster and filling the night with her shriek of pain and anger. She stumbled, tiny points of light glowing on her skin and clothes. Interesting. In a blur of motion she spun, and her bag came down over the child, who'd sat up suddenly at the loud noise. With a whipping of cloth, the bag was over her shoulder, wiggling and faint cries of fear and confusion emanating from it.

Damn. If she got out the window, the kid was dead. In desperation I held my staff forward for focus, forced my will down it, and made a yanking motion back toward me while snarling, “Trahere!”

Magic reached out and, with fine control, yanked back on the monster's upper body. Shouts by scared parents arose, muffled by the wall. I stepped forward, raised my staff, and brought it down on the thing’s back while yelling, “Compellere!”

A bright burst of white magic collided with the dark essence of the Babaroga, and it let out a high keening wail. I lifted my staff in triumph to bring it down once more and was shocked to feel the bony grasp of the beast on my ankle, yanking me off my feet and sending me crashing to the floor. The air rushed from my lungs, and I struggled to draw breath. With no small amount of effort, I sat up. With a hard backhand she threw me into the nearby wall, where I sank into the plaster and lathe, throwing plaster dust into the air.

It was right about this point that I started to worry. The parents would be in the room any second, and I would be easy pickings for anyone in a highly pissed off state who was also worried about their child.

I shook my head to clear it, a steady ache thrumming in the back of my skull. She was pulling the bag toward the open window, but she was visibly hurt. She snarled at me as she noticed me noticing her. More slowly than I'd have liked, I climbed to a crouch and held my hand out flat as if to blow more spelled salt at her. She brought her hands up to guard her face, letting go of the bag for the briefest of moments, and I pointed the end of my staff at her.

“Pellere!” I said, and with a force of will unseen power burst forth and hit the Babaroga, spinning her ass over teakettle and through the window with a crash. I rushed to look out, just in time to see my trap—a design drawn on the sidewalk with ensorcelled oil—flare to life, catching the beast half in and half out. Ichor ran from the neat slice that separated one large chunk of her body from the other, the trap unforgiving once sprung.

I turned slowly, breathing heavily and leaning on my staff, to find the child out of the bag and being held fast by its mother and a very angry man pointing a large caliber gun at me.

Hellfire. Just what I needed.

Muttering the trigger words, I brought my staff up just in time to absorb the first powerful shot from the gun. That sucker must have had some real punch behind it, because I rocked back a step. Adjusting to deflect instead of stop a shot, trying to save myself some energy, I started yelling at the guy to stop, but he was beyond hearing. Panic and fear gripped me hard as he began to discharge his gun rapid-fire, his fear in control. His wife and kid screamed almost as loudly as I did, though I was reasonably sure I was closer to wetting my pants. I ran for the door, each bullet weakening my shield and taxing my strength to the limit.

Then my strength gave out, and with it my shield. Fire lit up my side as a bullet grazed me, and I cried out in pain before slamming their front door behind me and taking the stairs down two at a time and out into the street. I stayed close to the face of the building just in case Rambo was looking out of that window after reloading. One glance at the slime left on the sidewalk confirmed the kill on that Babaroga, but I dared not look any longer. I melted into the night and made my way home.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Magic, being a practitioner of the Art, isn't all it's cracked up to be. Don't get me wrong—I'm great fun at parties and the occasional bar fight—but it's damn tiring, and people don't usually react with wonder. Nope, usually it's terror and violence, like my good buddy whose child I'd just saved, though I couldn't know if they'd seen the beast trying to steal their child or just me. God forbid if a large group saw you work magic—then it was time for the torches and pitchforks.

I let the front door, heavy oak with an insert of etched and beveled glass, close behind me and walked to the back of the entryway, past the large staircase, taking the steps down to the garden apartment. Hah. It's the basement. Garden makes it sound so natural and interesting, but it just means the grass is at eye level if you look out a window.

Technically this was a one bedroom apartment, but the room billed as a bedroom was a small, awkwardly shaped room that wasn't really suited to a bed. As a result, I treated my apartment more or less like a studio, so when you walked in you were looking right at my bed. A small wall extended about six feet in from the doorway, and on the other side of it was my living room area, with the kitchen directly across from the bed. A narrow hallway leading to the bathroom and 'bedroom' lay between the bed and the kitchen area.

I tossed my hat on the rack, shrugged carefully out of my long coat, and hung it as well. I headed into the bathroom and flipped on the light so I could see my injury. Damn fool and his gun—he could have hurt his wife or child. I pulled off my bloodstained shirt and tossed it aside before lifting my arm and studying the wound in the mirror.

It looked like a long, deep scratch, but no more than that. A very manly scratch. Hurt like a bastard, but I'd live. I got out the peroxide, gauze and tape and tended the wound. I gingerly made my way back to the main room, kicked my shoes off so that they landed in the vicinity of the door, and grabbed a beer from the fridge. I took a long pull from it and wandered into the living room, casting my gaze around for my phone. Probably in my jacket pocket.

“How did it go?”

I jumped. “Damn it, Hugo. I hate when you do that!”

“I know,” he replied. I could hear the smirk in his voice. I refused to look at him and give him the satisfaction. Making me jump was enough for him for one night.

I scowled at him and took a deliberate swig just to make him wait. At last I said, “You were right. Right down to the horns.”

“The trap worked?” he asked, flickering to stand by my side.

“Yes.”

Hugo is a ghost. He haunts my building. He has taken something of a liking to me, because I don't flip out when I see him. His bones are interred somewhere in the foundation of the building, so he's solidly tied here. He can be a little annoying, but by and large he's a pretty good guy. Ghost. We've spoken on and off for a year or so. All I really know is his first name and that he's dead. He's a pretty good sounding board for supernatural things, though.

Retrieving my phone, I was very pleased to find a message from Connor, an occasional hook-up. Well, maybe a little more than that, actually. He wanted to know if I was up for some time alone with him. I glanced at the time-stamp on his message and looked at the clock. He'd only messaged about thirty minutes ago, so there was a chance he hadn't found someone more interesting. I replied to him and was pleased indeed when he responded quickly, saying he'd be by in thirty minutes.

I tossed the phone aside and took another swig of beer before heading into the bathroom to clean up a bit. Having Connor stop by was an unexpected pleasure, and I had to fight off the idea that it was a cosmic reward for my evening's exploits; after all, Connor wasn't a prize to be won.

“That makes four different legends in as many weeks,” Hugo said, flickering again and standing in the doorway to the bathroom.

“I know,” I said, pausing. “Let's go over it all later tonight. See if any of it makes any more sense than it did earlier today.”

“Why not discuss it now, while it's fresh in your memory?”

I sighed and leaned forward, my hands on the sink for support. “Connor is coming over.” I braced myself, and was immediately rewarded with one of Hugo's more annoying traits.

“I don't know why you bother. He's temporary, like the ones who came before him. Embrace your work, and increase your defenses before one of the houses finds you. Survival should be your focus.”

“Getting laid and having a life are pretty high up on the list of reasons to survive, Hugo.”

“But—”

“Hugo. Later.”

He frowned and flickered out of sight.

I washed up, careful to avoid my new bandage, and turned my thoughts to perky little Connor. With short, spiky blond hair and an attitude suited to someone larger, he was pretty fun to hang with. He had a diamond-shaped face with kind eyes, but a very tight body, even if there wasn't a lot of muscle definition. He attended college somewhere close by; we'd never exchanged much detail beyond that. Hook-ups don't usually go out for coffee afterward, but he had hung around for some long-term cuddling before, and I was trying to figure out a way to expand on that without sounding desperate. He spoke in generalities when he did stay for a bit, never venturing far into the personal. He was a great cuddler, which planted seeds in my mind about trying to grow this into something more. I could use some of that tonight.

I wondered for a moment what it might be like to go out for coffee with Connor. He had to be intelligent if he was in school, I reasoned, and he was easy to be with. Of course, we hadn't delved deeply into each other's histories, and I figured he'd never buy my past, not really. Turning from those thoughts, I toweled off quickly and dressed lightly, not bothering with underclothes. I brushed and was just wiping my mouth when the doorbell buzzed. I opened it, admitting Connor, and he wasted no time on words. Slipping out of his coat as he walked in, he wrapped his arms behind my head and pulled me down into a kiss.

Sometimes a kiss is just a kiss, and sometimes it's a whole lot more. Sometimes it's a language, and every person has their own dialect. Connor had a few phrases in his kissing language I was familiar with; the lazy kisses minutes after sex were different from the soft, gentle ones just moments after sex. The time was short, but the kisses were vastly different in their feel and in what they said.

This was what I'd call his 'come fuck me' kiss.

Some time later I ran my hand along his hip as he recovered. The memory of his body making a sinuous motion, working up from his hips and through his entire upper body as he twisted and turned in passion. Watching him move was a close second to the actual act of sex, the fact that he was moving like that while having sex was pretty damn satisfying. The cuddle afterward was really a reason to live, though, if I'm honest. Even though I'm a bit over six feet and he several inches shorter, he fits to my frame remarkably well. I could get used to this.

“Hmm,” he groaned and sat up, his arms out straight behind him and turned to look down at me. “I have to go. I have a paper that's almost due, and I have to get a new shirt tomorrow.”

“A shirt? You shouldn't be allowed to wear clothes,” I told him. He chuckled and climbed out of the bed while I watched him with a lazy, sated hunger. I turned on my side, propping my head up with my hand as he looked around on the floor for his underwear.

“Yeah, a shirt. I like new clothes for a date, you know? Makes me feel all shiny and stuff,” he said, bending over to retrieve the black trunks.

“A date?” I asked, not even trying to hide my surprise.

He paused, his underwear dangling in one hand. The corners of his lips turned up, and he said, “Yeah. People do that, you know.”

I sat up, propped on one arm, and shook my head. “And how does one go about getting a date with you? I never see guys like you looking for anything more than...less than what we have here.”

He dropped his chin down and cocked one eyebrow up, regarding me with a mixture of disbelief and amusement. “Don't act like that. We've hooked up a few times. Spending more time together was never brought up.”

He pulled his underwear up, which made my night less pleasant, and I protested his statement.

“I thought this was all you wanted. If I'd known you'd be interested in more....” I held my hands out helplessly.

He pulled his polo on, a bright green that made a very appealing contrast with his black trunks and tanned legs. He cocked his mouth off to one side and lifted his eyebrow again.

“And what is a date, to you? Going to warm me up some mac 'n cheese and ravish me in your bed?”

I bit back the urge to remind him he wasn't complaining about my ability to ravish twenty minutes ago. I also decided it wouldn't be wise to ask if the date could end that way.

“Well, I'm guessing by that mac crack you don't want my cooking. So, I'll take you anywhere you want to go to eat,” I told him confidently.

He pulled his black jeans up and chuckled again. “Anyplace with a dollar menu? Walking distance from your place? Come on, Nico, you've never shown any interest in anything more than a quick screw and some cuddles after.”

I sat straight, folding my legs in front of me, and resisted the urge to respond to the 'quick' comment. But man, that was tough. “Again, I thought it's what you wanted. You told me nothing serious whenever we talked, no strings attached. But if you're actually going on dates...” I raised my eyebrow in challenge, and he tilted his head in question as he pushed the button through on his jeans and zipped up the fly.

“You're not serious, Nico,” he said with a chuckle.

“Dominic's,” I said.

He widened both eyes and dropped his chin again, plainly thinking I was joking.

“Seriously,” I said and locked my gaze to his. My heart hammered in my chest almost as if that man from earlier were holding his hand cannon to my head. Would Connor have enough interest from our trysts to try for more? If he did, what might I learn about this beautiful creature? All my previous, ephemerous thoughts about wanting something more with him were coalescing into something concrete in my chest.

“Why? Why now? I thought you just liked fucking me. You've never...?” He held his hands out in question.

“I do like sex with you,” I confirmed. I held up a finger. “I do recall trying to ask some questions about you, but you were vague and... Well, it seemed like you wanted to keep things more anonymous. Hey, look,” I said with a shrug that was in opposition to the tension I felt, “if you're not interested—”

“I didn't say that.”

I lifted an eyebrow in mockery of his expression and smiled. “Then tell me when. Actually, no.”

He frowned at that, and I climbed to the edge of the bed and sat in front of him, feet on the floor, and took the ends of his fingers in my hand.

“I don't want to take any chances. I've been wondering how to get more with you. This guy you have a date with? He might be way better than me.” I smiled slyly and let my head tilt from side to side. “So...let's go tomorrow.”

He blushed and said, “Nico, I told you I have a date.”

“I know. You still do, just with me. Come on. We do pretty well in the sack. We've gotten along afterward, too. Cuddling, chatting. Isn't that worth seeing how we'd do otherwise?” I paused, looking at him as he looked at me, studying me. Looking for something, gods alone know what. I hadn't liked someone like Connor in a while, and I wasn't going to let whoever this guy was take him. Not without a fight.

He shook his head and smiled. “I didn't see this coming. Okay, though. I guess you got dibs or something, but you better not screw this up,” he warned me, pulling a hand free and pointing at me. “This guy won't ever go out with me again when I tell him I'm going out with someone else.”

I stood and grinned, taking his face in my hands and kissing him happily. I offered him mac and cheese, but he declined.

After he left, Hugo reappeared with a dour expression on his face. “When I was alive there was no such thing as this...casual sex.”

I glanced at him and rolled my eyes. “Sure there was. You just weren't getting any.”

I pulled on sweat pants as Hugo took a few more shots at my sex life, but I ignored him. You can't win with a couple hundred something year old prude. Instead I crossed the narrow hallway to the tiny bedroom, which was really more like a closet with big dreams. Flicking on the light, I made a careful circuit of the room. Wards were laid into the walls to prevent folks from spotting me working magic, practicing so I could defend myself. I had no idea how strong I was relative to others, but I sure didn't want to be eaten alive. The more magic that was worked in a location, the stronger the impression it left. Flinging it around as I did earlier in the evening wouldn't survive as an impression for but a few hours. But here, where I practiced, it would build up like a beacon—thus the wards. Satisfied with their condition, I glanced at the board I'd been assembling with Hugo's help. I sat on a stool and let my gaze wander over the information.

The board was a magnified map of the city with pushpins placed carefully, spearing both the map and a small note describing what had been found.

“So, let's add this up, Hugo,” I said. The ghost flickered over by my side and regarded the board.

“Before we do that, I'd like to know how things went tonight? We were going to talk before you decided to engage in your loose morals.”

I shot him some side-eye. “Prude.” He held his tongue, and I filled him in on the fight.

“The incidents began approximately four weeks ago,” he recited. “Since then we've stopped a Grýla, a Draugen—which was odd, being as far from the sea as we are.”

“That's what you found odd?” I asked, shaking my head.

“Well,” Hugo said in a patient tone, “it didn't fit the lore.”

“Anyway,” I said and turned my attention back to the board. “Four weeks, four folk tales come to life. What ties these things together, other than that they are folk tales?”

“Nothing that I can find,” Hugo admitted. “I've spoken with many spirits locally—the ones who are still sane, at any rate. They can tell me much about the legends, but besides that...”

“Bupkis. I know.” I drummed my fingers on my knee as I looked over the information. “What else doesn't add up, Hugo, is how they are all from different groups. The Grýla is from Iceland, Draugen are from Sweden—and for a hot minute there,” I said, raising a finger in the air, “I thought we were onto a regional tie in. Of course, the damn Krampus put that thought to bed, with its Germanic origin. That's without adding in the Babaroga...where was that from again?”

“Macedonia. I think it's called something else now. But the salient point is that it, too, was not from the Nordic area like the first two.” Hugo shook his head. “Of course, the one thing their legend has in common is preying on children.”

I nodded my head slowly. “Yeah, that's true. So, we need to find someone who hates kids? That should be easy,” I said, my voice laced with sarcasm.

We batted ideas back and forth for about an hour, but eventually decided to give it a rest for the night. With my head filled with lore about monsters who ate children, I fell into a troubled sleep.

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