“Where did you get the Molotov Cocktail from Al?” Matt asked as they crouched behind a car in front of the shop. With some time to reflect, the life-saving manoeuvre came back to mind.

  “Yeeaahhh, about that.” Alan replied hesitantly. “I thought some insurance might be useful, so I made one up with an old vodka bottle and a can of petrol I had in the shed. I had a guess at how it should work – bloody glad I did now! Those things were fu….really damn scary!”

  Matt smirked a bit at Alan’s coarse correction. He and Arlee rarely swore, but their friend was a bit more…candid with his feelings. He did respect their wishes to restrain some of his more fruity language around Kira, although a year into secondary school it was becoming obvious this was a losing battle.

  They checked each other over as they spoke in hushed tones. There were some scorch marks from biting bolts of miniature lightning, and Arlee’s arm would require Carry’s attention when they got back. Other than that though, they were in astonishingly intact shape, considering the recent encounter.

  “Any more surprises, or anything else we should know about?” Arlee asked. “I’m very grateful for the foresight Alan, but I’d rather know than find out by surprise.”

  She flashed him a grateful smile, keenly aware that without that surprise, they would very likely be hanging, wrapped in spider silk and either dead – or wishing they were. The thought of Carry and Kira waiting for their return… waiting endlessly, with none of the normal societal apparatus for passing information and alerting next of kin. She shuddered at the thought, blinking back tears and blotting them on a sleeve quickly.

  “What’s up Arl?” Matt reached out to her, seeing her emotion, laying a hand on her back and rubbing gently. “What’s wrong?”

  “I want to get back… to Kira and Carry. I thought…” She gulped back a sob and took a deep breath. “I thought we were trapped, no way to escape. If Alan hadn’t thought to prepare a homemade bomb…if you hadn’t decided to take up jousting… Kira would never have known what happened to us. She and Carry would just be left there – waiting, hope fading – until the next monster came along, and… and…” She dissolved into quiet tears, no longer able to hold them back.

  Matt sidled over and held her tightly as her body shuddered against his. He had experienced the same feelings as Arlee, but his pragmatic mindset had helped him avoid the anxiety of what if and push the negative emotion down. It was an attitude he had silently thanked his parents for regularly, as his upbringing was big on practical lessons, learning by doing - usually resulting in bumped heads, skinned knees and the various painful reminders which made the accompanying experiences stick with growing boy and man.

  Arlee pulled out a tissue, wiped away tears and quietly blew her nose. Alan had been keeping an eye out around them, but reached down to squeeze her shoulder and give her a signature cocky grin.

  “Don’t you worry Arl, we’ll get back to them. There’s nothing keeping me from my lady, and I might as well take you two along as well.”

  Arlee stood up, eyes roving around the street and houses. “Let’s get back then. We’ve got what we came for.”

  “Not quite yet love.” Matt said, looking off down the road. “The Wrens’ place is just down there and around the corner. You two get going and I’ll probably catch you up on the way back on my trusty wheels.”

  Arlee looked stricken, and looked about to protest, but then nodded reluctantly. Although unhappy at being separated, she knew Kira would be devastated if they didn’t follow through on the promise to check on her best friend, and she didn’t want to leave the slightest possibility of her daughter deciding to do something foolish to confirm for herself. She took Matt’s face in both hands.

  “You listen to me Tapper. You check in on them, give them the patches you made, and you get back to me… to us, at the double. If they want to join us, there’s probably space in the places around us they could move into, but that’s up to them, okay? No staying for dinner or detours on the way back. Understood?” Her voice was steady, but Matt could hear the undertones of fear. He leaned over and kissed her forehead.

  “I promise my lovely. I won’t hang around, and I’ll pedal like the devil all the way back. If I don’t catch up before you get home, maybe get some water heating for me please? I’m going to be sweaty!”

  “On that fragrant note, let’s get going Arl.” Alan interjected. “We can head up and across the bridge on the main road, then cut down through Springfield Road. Plenty of trees for cover and we can see if there are other people around.”

  Matt gripped his stained and rancid smelling spear in one hand, the handlebars in the other, and put his foot on the pedal before turning to the pair. “Take care you two, I’ll see you soon.”

  He started pedalling down the road, slowly at first to get used to the awkward riding style but then picking up speed along the flat surface. Regular exercise and sport over the years had kept him in pretty good shape, and he was confident that unless a threat pulled off a risky ambush attack, he could quickly outpace most things. Famous last thoughts, he chided himself, keenly aware that the new unnatural order had many more surprises in store for them than they had seen already.

  Reaching the turning that led to the Wrens’ house, he slowed to a stop under the branches of a large oak tree and looked around. Nothing moved, and the nearby houses were quiet. Doors and windows were intact – at least at the front that he could see – and there weren’t the same scenes of violent entry that marked many of the properties along their own road.

  He started down the road, gently pedalling, senses straining for the first sign of danger that would see him swing around and pedal for his life. As he moved down the road, he noticed more of the houses had barricaded windows, and he spotted a couple of scared faces peeking around curtains. He didn’t wave, unsure how reassuring he would be waving a spear around. About halfway down the road, he heard a loud whisper. “Hey! You on the bike, get away, hurry!”

  Matt turned toward the house on his right, a wide-fronted, single-storey bungalow. Turning toward it and into the short driveway, he initially failed to see the source of the voice, but it hailed him again, through an open letterbox. “Are you crazy? Get out of here, you’ll draw its attention!”

  Matt dismounted and quickly crouched between the building and a large Mercedes. Scanning around himself and seeing no imminent danger, he crouch-ran into the enclosed porch area and hunkered down to the side of the door.

  “What’s attention?” He asked quietly.

  The male voice, tinged with exasperation and panic came out of the narrow slit in the front door once more. “I don’t know, you think I want to find whatever it is?! It’s big – we could hear it breaking into the houses down the end, people screaming and running. Now go away before it finds you here!”

  Matt’s heart had sunk as the man had described where he had heard the sounds from. The Wrens’ house was right at the end of the road, backing onto one of the main small areas of woodland surrounding the village. He turned to look, craning his neck to see around the parked vehicle, before turning back.

  “I need to go to the end – our friends live there. I need to make sure they’re ok.” His voice was subdued, resigned. He dreaded what he might find but couldn’t turn away without some more investigation. While not especially close to Lara’s parents, they were a lovely family and shared some interests. The inseparability of their respective daughters made it inevitable that their paths would cross regularly, and their friendship had grown through several years of school activities and social events.

  “I’m sorry.” The voice emerged once again, calmer, more subdued. “We couldn’t do anything to help. Please don’t piss anything off though, we have to live here!”

  Matt nodded, not caring if the motion couldn’t be seen. He collected his bike, starting to cautiously move toward the end of the road. Nearing the final circle of houses, he crouched under a wide bush, scanning the houses for any sign of movement. Seeing none, he couldn’t help but notice the smashed doors and windows, even crumbling brickwork in a couple of places. Large scrape marks were evident on many surfaces, even roofs, and tatters of a ragged light brown material swayed in a gentle breeze wherever they were caught.

  Matt’s eyes welled up as he looked across the Wrens’ property. Destruction was everywhere - the smashed door, the brand-new Honda CR-V hybrid, which Lara’s father Brad had showed off so proudly when they met last, now crumpled as if some huge cable had tightened around it. Fence panels lay in splinters leading around the side of the house, and a wide trail of grass was crushed and torn. Blinking back tears, Matt was about to turn and leave, then a pale object on the roof caught his attention.

  Emerging from a hole where a tile had been dislodged, limp against the surrounding dark brown tiles, unmistakeably was a small human hand.

  Without a second thought, Matt started creeping forward, his despair replaced by determination. Avoiding loose stones and splintered pieces of car, he propped his bike against a garden wall and made his way to the front door, putting every minute of watching military movies to use as he tried to stay quiet and hidden. The door was fully off its hinges, lying in splintered shards across the porch and into the hallway, but sneaking a look inside he saw no sign of any movement and heard no sound. Some more scraps of the tattered brown material fluttered here and there, but…

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  Scales. Shed snakeskin.

  He froze, eyes darting everywhere frantically, but no lurking hunters struck out at him. The scraps were a uniform faded brown colour, ranging in size from a couple of inches across to maybe a foot. With incredulous realisation, he now understood what had happened to the car out front.

  It would have to be a foot wide, surely nothing is getting that big, he thought, before the terrifying sight of the plummeting hunting bird reared up in his mind. He could take nothing for granted when it came to the changes happening all around them.

  Taking a deep breath, he ducked through the door and moved along the hallway, careful to avoid treading on the larger chunks of shattered door. He had visited the house often enough to know the layout, and he crept up the stairs, wincing at even the slightest creak from the floorboards. Carefully holding his spear ahead of him, he reached the landing and looked about, seeing a stool lying on its side through one of the open bedroom doors.

  He grabbed the stool, but recoiled as his hands stuck to dark droplets, sprayed across the top of the stool. He clenched his eyes closed for a moment, the coppery tang already thick in his nostrils. He backed out of the bedroom and softly closed the door behind himself, wiping hands clean on the carpet before looking around for anything he could use to boost himself up to the loft hatchway.

  A chair from the small study room swiftly found a new purpose as Matt – as quietly as possible – climbed up onto the chair and pushed the hatch in the ceiling open, noticing dents and scratches on its painted surface. Darkness greeted him, and a faint sound – like a scratch had him freeze once more, breath held, but nothing else could be heard. Taking a deep breath, he boosted himself up and raised up to a kneeling position on the loft floor.

  The Wrens’ had been planning a loft conversion, as Lara and her brother David were starting to outgrow the smaller bedrooms they had been occupying. The usual boxes and bric-a-brac were piled around, but a solid floor had been laid, and plasterboard created the side walls of what would be a new room. Orienting himself in the dark interior, Matt turned toward the front of the house, where a pile of boxes created a convenient cubby hole – a lifesaving hiding spot, he hoped. He was just about to creep forward when a distinctive voice spoken directly into his ear made him jump in fright.

  “If you twitch so much as a hair in the wrong way, scoundrel, I will roast you where you stand. Kneel. Crouch. Lurk. I think you comprehend my meaning, yes?”

  Matt didn’t dare move. The male voice was not one he knew, although it immediately brought visions of Batman’s butler Alfred to mind, formal and well-spoken. Who could this be? He went back through conversations with the Wrens over the years, trying to remember any references to excessively posh or proper relatives or associates, but came up blank.

  “Well, miscreant. Am I understood?” The voice was quiet and sounded a little impatient.

  Matt thought for a moment. “I’m trying not to twitch anything sir. I don’t want to get roasted. My name is Matt, I’m here looking for my daughter’s friend, Lara.”

  The voice was filled with sorrow as it replied. “My mistress has experienced great trauma, and will be protected from unknown knaves who happen by. She has suffered enough, now leave her in peace, I say!”

  “Please sir, I mean her no harm. My daughter Kira asked…..”

  “Kira!” The voice said loudly, before moderating itself hurriedly as the sound echoed around the interior. “My mistress has spoken of this maiden. If you are her father…are you Mr T?

  Matt cursed quietly to himself, semi-regretting ever introducing the girls to the old tv show clips on Youtube. It had seemed harmless at the time, but it had only taken a brief time before the nickname was firmly lodged in place, to be brought out with giggles whenever the two girls were together.

  “I am.” Matt said in a resigned tone. He took a chance and sank slowly to sit on the hard plank flooring, his legs screaming curses at him for holding an awkward position for too long. Keeping his hands in plain sight, he turned slowly to face his captor. And gaped in shock.

  That’s a dragon.

  He rubbed his eyes, blinking, before tapping the patch on his chest. A soft radiance grew out of the patch and illuminated the half-finished room.

  That’s a dragon.

  His brain was scrambled, stuck between utter disbelief and a childlike glee that the iconic monster of legend, and most awesome literary creation ever, met his eyes, clutching a roof support beam in clawed feet. Feet supporting a football-sized body.

  Tiny, clawed feet. That’s a dragon. A tiny dragon.

  Wait a moment…

  Matt narrowed his eyes, taking in the detail of the miniature reptilian miracle in front of him, long-jaws with occasional wisps of grey-blue smoke curling up from small nostrils on the top of the snout. Legs, body and wings covered in fine blue scales, tapering off to a tail, which was… well, there really was no other word for it…

  Plushy

  The dragons of myth and legend, of Harry Potter and D&D shared many traits and characteristics – noble or dastardly depending on who was writing the story. With one notable movie exception, what they were never described as was…

  A little bit chunky

  Like..a cuddly…

  “Oswald?!”

  “At your service sir! It is gratifying to be recognised by so prominent a personage as yourself. The mistress has spoken of you kindly on many an occasion.” His face took on a sorrowful expression once more, his head drooping. “When she yet spoke, of course.”

  Oswald had been almost as inseparable from Lara as Kira was, a blue plush dragon toy who took pride of place on the shelf above Lara’s bed. ‘My guardian’, she laughed and he was still pulled into conversation every now and then when the girls needed an additional body to outvote an adult.

  Matt shook himself out of his awed stupor, reminding himself of the urgency of his task. “Lara…The mistress – is she hidden behind those boxes?”

  Oswald nodded fervently, and Matt hurried forward, rounding the boxes and beheld his daughter’s friend. Draped over a box, one arm pushed through the felt lining of the roof in a silent plea for help. Cracked lips and sunken cheeks spoke to dehydration and malnourishment, and she made no sign of noticing that he was there. Shallow, raspy breaths were the only outward sign of life.

  Carefully Matt gathered the young girl into one arm, slowly extricating her hand from the hole in the roof. Vivid scrape marks ringed her wrist, rubbed raw from the rough edges. Her head lolled forward onto his chest, and Matt was heartened as a quiet groan heralded the presence of life.

  “I’m here Lara, I’ve got you. I’ll keep you safe.” Matt carefully checked her over for any obvious injuries, but the t-shirt and cargo trousers showed no signs of blood. Her wrist looked painful, but not serious. The main problem was the obvious lack of food and water. Cradling Lara in both arms, he carefully made his way back around the boxes, to find Oswald now stood on the floor, peering down through the hatchway.

  “How long has she been up here?” Matt asked, laying Lara down and taking off his hoodie to make her a pillow. The light patch – now obscured – cast strange shadows around them.

  The small face grew haggard, if such was possible for a tiny dragon with adorable puffy cheeks. “I know not. After my awakening, my mistress’ joy was great, and she spoke of taking me to see your daughter. That night we were settling to sleep and a great commotion was heard outside. We heard screaming, then my mistress’ mother gathered her and lifted her up here, still clutching me tightly.”

  The quiet voice caught and was filled with immense sorrow as he continued. “I did not see what happened next, but my mistress called out to her brother, there were terrible sounds of hurt, and my mistress fell down on top of the hatch there, sealing it closed with her body. There were some thumps and she cried out – so loud, so long – before the attacker gave up and we heard it no more.”

  “I shall miss my mistress’ relations, for they were kindly and merry spirits. She called out to them in hope for some short while, but we heard no reply.” The small head bowed and fell silent.

  Matt thought back. If the attack here had happened on the same night as the rats swarmed his own neighbourhood, the poor girl had likely been trapped here for three or four days without food or water – although there were water marks around the hole in the roof. Maybe she had managed to stave off full dehydration with raindrops and dew?

  Kicking himself for forgetting, Matt reached into a pocket and pulled out the water patch he had brought for the family. Fixing it inside an old bucket, he tapped it to produce a stream of clear water, filling the bucket and overflowing slightly. Dipping his hand in, he carefully moved back to where Lara lay and slowly dribbled a few drops onto her cracked lips.

  At first, there was no response, but as Matt grew more concerned, Lara’s lips moved and the water droplets were drawn in. Waiting a few seconds, Matt repeated the motion, cognisant that he could not rush the process, or she would vomit up everything and maybe hurt herself more seriously.

  He kept this up for several more minutes, and thought that her colour looked slightly better. Lara’s breathing seemed to be easier, and he hoped that his ministrations would keep her out of immediate danger until he could get her back to Carry.

  Matt made up his mind. “Oswald, we’re going to get Lara – the mistress – out of here and back to my house. We have a healer there who can take care of her and make her better, and she will be with friends. Can you fly?”

  Oswald perked up, spreading blue wings and launching himself into the air, displaying surprising grace for one not entirely streamlined. Hovering in place with wings beating fast, he looked proudly at Matt’s face, though after several seconds, he settled back down to the ground again.

  “Hovering like that takes too much energy for long. If I have space to swoop and glide however, then you shall witness some true aerial acrobatics.” Oswald exclaimed dramatically.

  “Good enough.” Matt said. “I will need to carry Lara, that will be difficult enough riding my bike without carrying you as well.” He started rooting through boxes, finding what he was looking for in a box of old clothes. Awkwardly positioning Lara on his front, he took several minutes to secure her arms around his neck, tying her to him with bath robe belts, strips torn from towels and other improvised padding. Once he was as certain as he could be that she was secure, he experimentally stood up and tested the weight.

  It was manageable, but he hoped desperately that he wouldn’t have to fight. His movement was going to be ungainly and slow, pedalling would be awkward, but he had to try. There was never a question of leaving without the girl.

  Matt managed to scrape a lot of skin from his back and sides, getting back down through the hatchway to the landing below, but his improvised harness held, and Lara was conscious enough now to cling on around his neck and shoulders, her face buried in his neck, cloaked by her shoulder-length blonde hair. With one arm holding her reassuringly, directing Oswald out of an open window toward his waiting bike, Matt gathered up his spear and moved gingerly down the stairs. Rounding a corner on the steps and stepping down into the hallway, he adjusted his precious cargo and checked his surroundings.

  Just in time to see the enormous, serpentine body and head raise up off the floor and lock its glittering eyes directly on his.

  Tongue flickering between knife-sized fangs.

  Coiled to strike.