The Dragon's Horde Page 10

  The forest is a home, but not my home. Not to me.

  The animals sing, but not to me.

  They’re not the same. I’m not the same.

  After being hunted and forced to run on the most wild goose chase, I just wanted to live without having to look over my shoulder for the rest of my life.

  It seems that, even though I stayed away, like I was supposed to, exiled, they still came back to ruin my life.

  I wonder if they still expect the meek little Drakaina that I was before.

  They don’t expect what’s coming.

  My name is Remi.

  I may be the last Drakaina alive, but I’m not dying this year.

  Or next year,

  Or the next.

  Thank you

  To those who bought and enjoyed “The Dragon’s Horde”

  The first in the Supernaturals of Stonehold series.

  Following on;

  Book one

  The Dragon’s Horde

  Book Two

  The Infamous Beast

  Coming Soon!

  Book Three

  Their Final Prize

  Coming soon!

  Read on

  For the first chapter of

  T h e I n f a m o u s B e a s t.

  The supernaturals of Stonehold book two.

  "I know how my story ends… it's at the edge of a blade or the barrel of a gun."

  "Huh, well, that's slightly morbid but there you go."

  Mika and I are laying across my tattered old sofa, watching a ‘much needed’ Supernatural marathon on Mika's portable DVD player. I did express that I didn't need to watch the series, but my opinion was taken away, rolled, and shoved firmly up my own arse.

  I'm kinda thankful too, this show is quite... interesting.

  I could argue that I'm watching this purely for 'modern-linguistic-research' purposes, but for my sake, I don't want to receive any more unnecessary side-eye from Mika.

  It's been a couple of days since the encounter with Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome outside the pub. After the most confusing and worrying time of my life, I hauled Mika to my cottage, grabbed Lucius and camped out on the sofa. It was only a couple of days ago that Mika relented and escaped to her house to get the DVD's and the player itself.

  Poor girl probably couldn't stand the silence.

  The DVD player drones on with one of the brothers... Dean I think? Talks this guy down from killing him. It doesn't escape my notice that this guy can talk himself out of any situation, almost as if he possesses the gift-of-the-gab.

  The other brother however reads the books and always manages to get himself stuck in a situation that means he has to be rescued by the other.

  It has a lot of series and episodes but that's what I've summarised so far.

  With an almost endless supply of tea and biscuits, our camp-out and binge-watching can only last for so long before we need to vacate Fort Knox for simple things; like toilet roll, alcohol or snack-foods. Three days of hibernation only resulted in us consuming every morsel in sight. The food is beginning to be rationed between Lucius, Mika and I and I feel hungrier than a soldier on the frontline in World War One.

  As the days have worn on, the sofa underneath me transforms from a soft, fluffy cloud to a concrete brick. I'm not sure if it's the dwindling density of the sofa that's made my arse lose all sensations, or if it's the constant weight on my posterior that caused me to have pins and needles of the butt.

  It's only as I get up and make my way to the kitchen to find some sustenance that my arse resumes its blood flow and I can feel tingles like popping candy under my skin. The need to inhale an obscene amount of food is the only cure to sleepy appendages.

  I check my cupboards, but the sight that greets me is not welcoming nor helpful. It seems my 'almost endless' supply of food has finally been eradicated. I have at least one sixth of a packet of oatmeal left. Mika, or I, or Mika and I, have finally eaten ourselves out of house and home.

  Never thought I'd say that in my lifetime…

  The sound of feet walking along the floor behind me is the only sign that Mika has joined me in my quest for food. I feel as if this may be a long hunt for something edible to bide our time until tomorrow morning, yet, it's only when the quiet pitter-patter of claws following Mika that I remember it's not just us two in this overfilled cottage I call home.

  It seems as though our social-strike will have to end, purely on the basis that I can't feed Lucius dried oatmeal. We may have survived three odd days with a calm collected fox, but I better hop to it and get some fox approved food if I don't want to stumble upon the lord of the damned, bringer of flames and king of hell - his grace.

  AKA… Lucius.

  I turn to look at Mika but she's skipped over to the sofa to pause the ongoing Supernatural marathon and to pull on her shoes. Thankfully she has forgone the New Rocks, instead settling on some Dr Martens instead.

  Both shoes are clunky but at least these ones won't send vibrations through the earth to wake the dead on our way to the shop. I'm just hoping that our outing is short, sweet, and doesn't happen to cross paths with any broody, ginger, jock-ish, book-loving, nerdy guys.

  I'd really like to avoid them all after the awkward encounter with the Alpha the other day at the bar. He smelled that I was something supernatural, but not what I was. It's peculiar, but I guess when you avoid your own species for a long time, and I mean really long time, your scent dampens.

  Its a plus for me but obviously a big negative for them, or him, rather. I did overhear his name being spoken at the bar - the Draconis heir called him Remington, but he also referred to him as 'boss'. Sarcastically, I might add.

  Making my way over to my shoes, I slide my feet into my waiting Chucks, only needing to throw on a coat over my ripped-jeans and baggy shirt before I make the painstaking journey to the shop for some food for us. Lucius's small body hugs the edges of the sofa as he stares back at me, his chocolate brown eyes all round and cute. Bending down, I give him a small scratch on the top of his head, reassuring that I will be back. Lucius acts like the Lord of the manor, but I'm sure he experiences some degree of separation anxiety.

  He scampers off to his Hell hole as I grab my bag and head for the door. Mika's bringing up the rear, shutting the door behind her. Thankfully, we leave when it's still light out, so there isn't an ominous woods facing us but the picture of sweet serenity.

  Sweet serenity hours before sunset is gorgeous, a vivid type of ecstasy for our eyes. Ribbons of scarlet and gold stream through the canopy of trees that surround my small home. I've been given permanent front row seats to nature's technicolour performance.

  It's a sight that walks alongside Mika and I - all the way to the town's small shop. It's by no means a superstore, but it harbours all the major necessities and a few sought after luxuries. You've got your milk and bread for example, but you can also buy make-up. The make-up aisle is Mika's second home and I wouldn't be surprised if the store clerks knew Mika by name, face or smell.

  Although knowing Mika by smell would be awkward. I don't think you can smell dark, dingy and disturbed emo Barbie.

  The door beeps as we walk in, alerting our presence to customers and staff. Mika, ever the non-conscientious shopper, runs towards the make-up aisle only moments after our shoes have touched down on the industrial sized welcome mat that sits just inside the shop's doors.

  Her speed is definitely more than that of a normal human because she's turning down the aisle before I've even had the chance to shout her name. In this moment, disgruntled and famished, I have no choice but to grab a basket and go to rescue the inanimate objects from Mika's clutches.

  I make my way down the aisle to procure Mika from her sacred place. I'm in no right mind to be saving make-up products, but here I am, wasting precious minutes I may never regain, all to be the saver of inanimate objects from an overly obsessive, possessive tiger-shifter.

  Rounding the corner, I spot Mika crouching in front of the ma
ke-up line. There's compacts and brushes, polishes and liners scattered around her in a haphazard fashion. It looks like the God of chaos went for a whirl in a supermarket aisle, causing destruction and disorder in their wake. Unfortunately for Mika, she sits in the middle of said destruction, so she cops all the death-stares, hard sighs and eye-rolls from the staff that pass by the aisle.

  Only when she hears the sound of my trainers on the squeaky white-wash linoleum that she starts aimlessly grabbing at different products, balancing them precariously in her hands. She's making a functioning hand basket, but whilst losing the main function of her hands... Not sure if that's an oxymoron or a double negative. Or a metaphor. Hm.

  I'm only steps away when Mika notices the basket I procured from the entrance of the shop, and proceeds to dump all of her shit in it. I gaze over the assortment of items and summarise that there must be at least thirty quids worth of stuff in there. The amount that she uses however, I’m not surprised she goes through about thirty quids worth of crap a week.

  A small, very un-feline like smile falls on her lips, and with a turn of her heel and a sashay of her hips (albeit out of time) Mika saunters off ahead in front of me to raid the ready meal aisle like it's going out of fashion. Me, I divert and head straight to the vegetable aisle to get Lucius's greens and some odd bits for myself.

  It's only about twenty minutes later when I hear the tale-tale sounds of a struggle rapidly approaching and I can only guess that Mika's carrying too much stuff. It's probably piled up like un-regulated Tetris blocks, stacked precariously, thwarting the progress yet going nowhere.

  Which means she must have got enough meals for two weeks in her hands, and my basket is only so small. I frown at the delectable item in my hand, wishing it could be bigger because I have no doubt that Mika will dump this crap on me, and then go and get more stuff before she finally clears the store out of house and home. Maybe I'll get her to grab a trolley to save all of my anxiety plagued issues. What's turned into a full on shopping trip is now taking more than the allotted time space.

  Reminding the poor girl is only going to make her rush around like a metaphorical bat out of Hell. Although its the only way I'm ever going to get out of here with some of my life left to enjoy. I feel like a mother who has a child who won't stop whining, picking things up and throwing tantrums. Just to make it harder for her, I turn and make my way to the aisles that house the chicken, green beans and peas for Lucius.

  It's only when I've retrieved both mine and Lucius's necessities that Mika emerges, looking like a petrified feline who's been caught being a tea-leaf in the confectionery aisle. Seriously, her eyes are wide as saucers, she's hurrying like her ass is on fire, and her arms are full of ready meals and Fox's biscuits. She's managing by some sort of fucking miracle to carry all if the shit in her arms, but only up until she reaches me and the half-full basket. Dumping all of her shit in it, she grabs my hand and hauls my arse towards the checkouts.

  There's only three manned ones here and as soon as we find one that's almost-readily-available, she separates our shopping from the persons in front, and starts throwing the items onto the conveyor belt with a newfound velocity.

  It's only when I really look at the guy in front that I realize it's Mr. Grigori and he seems as if he's struggling slightly with the two nearly-full bags. The small caring side of me won't let Mr. Grigori struggle like that, so I throw Mika my card and leave her to pack up and pay. I head over to help with the enormous bags of shopping the odd sea-water smelling old-guy has.

  "Mr. Grigori?" He turns slightly to see me, and a smile gracing his lips as he recognises me.

  "It's Remi, from the bookstore?" He nods. "I was just wondering if you'd like a hand?" I gesture towards the two full bags, the plastic handles straining against the bag itself.

  "Why, that would be lovely my dear." Awh, Mr. Grigori even has manners. Not like most grumpy old shits. "I always forget to pack extra bags.. not that I can carry more than two."

  My heart melts at his idle chit-chat. Bless the old man's cotton's. "If it helps, Mr. Grigori, I don't mind coming out to help you shop."

  Wait a hot fucking minute, did I just offer to help someone?

  Mr. Grigori looks at me, his sea blue eyes capturing my light green ones. It's as if our souls connect, and the feeling that passes through me is odd, almost as if I'm enamoured by this man, but that couldn't be. I'm not helping for possible gain. Though, as soon as that feeling begins, it passes. I suddenly feel comfortable, lightweight and carefree.

  I focus back on Mr. Grigori and realise he's smiling, not an all-out, up-to-your-eyes smile, but a smile nonetheless. I class it as the polite-old-guy smile, because Mr. Grigori looks about seventy-five years old, and I've never asked him what his first name is. He probably gets sick of me calling him Mr. Grigori, but that is his name.

  A smell in the air tickles my nose as I take one of the bags from Mr. Grigori's hands, I wouldn't have paid much attention to it but the withered old man beside me suddenly stands ramrod straight, and those sea blue spheres harden at the approaching figures.

  It's only when I look up that I remind myself to breathe in again, that I recognise the smell that's been haunting my dreams for the past couple of days. Smoke and ashes. It only becomes more pungent the closer the males come and it takes every ounce of strength to convince myself not to look over, but between my overwhelming sense of survival and my bewildering curiosity, I find myself looking at two of the fearsome four that rattle my bones the least.

  A glowing head of ginger greets me, as well as an unruly mop of light-brown hair. Both guys wear glasses firmly propped on their noses, their gazes soft but calculated. The ginger one is obviously Finnegan - or Finn for short. I remember the sharp angle of his jaw and his dark blue eyes that made sapphires envious. But I also remember the small details that highlight the eyes of the Draconis heir. I’m sure his name was mentioned - Leland, if I recall, and he’s definitely younger than the rest of the bunch.

  Even though they’re only walking into the supermarket they still have an air of arrogance around them. Its probably because they’re the new kids, in a town that's suspicious of anything with a pulse. Finn looks the most at ease, grabbing a basket and walking off towards the vegetables without missing a beat. The heir however? Reminds me of a kitten surrounded by big bad wolves - lost and alone. It probably doesn’t help that he’s been left alone in a foreign environment.

  I’m stuck between feeling like I should help the poor bastard, and leaving the fucker to figure it out himself. My badass-bitch side is battling my caring, nurturing side as we speak, both sit on my shoulders, one caressing the side of my face the other jabbing a pitchfork into my temple. Thankfully, it's Mr. Grigori who gently clasps my hand in his, nodding his head up and down.

  Despite Mr. Grigori's encouragement, I’m on the fence about going over to help the poor bugger, or leaving him to fend for himself.

  Mr. Grigori yanks on my hand this time, pulling me from my warring stupor. The guy's clearly having some sort of anxiety attack from being in an unfamiliar environment, he's wringing his hands together and looking around nervously. I’m still in two minds whether I'm the right person to help or not when Mr. Grigori lays a hand on my arm, pulling my attention from the heir to him.

  If Mr. Grigori was forty years younger, I might’ve met my own personal hero in Stonehold. However, the withering elderly gentlemen only looked into my eyes with sincerity and an overwhelming sense of calm. I’m stumped as to why, considering that the old man was tighter than a father with their wallet no more than ten seconds ago.

  “Maybe you should go and help him, Remi.” He looks back at the heir again before looking back to me. “He looks lost and.. Unacclimatized to this setting.”

  My eyes widen slightly at his response. Instead of blaming the poor kid’s behaviour on anxiety, like any other old person would do, he saw right through the stigma and straight to his issues. I knew Mr. Grigori was an old supernatural, but now I’ve
added fucking mindreader to the list of shit he' capable of. At the moment, the list is quite small, he doesn’t let me see too much of him and I don’t let him see too much me of me either.

  “Only if you come with me,” I stage whisper to the old guy “you know more than you let on." His only answer is a small smile.

  With that small smile as confirmation, I walk with Mr. Grigori towards the heir... kid... boy. Calling him an heir seems slightly inappropriate outside of the realm.

  The lad is still stood in the middle of the welcome mat just inside the front entrance. His eyes are finding solace in the floor content with avoiding other customers and staff who mull around him. It’s a change from his behaviour a moment ago and only when Mr. Grigori and I move closer do his eyes flick from the floor to us repeatedly, as if he’s trying to catalogue our features before we get there. As if he’s trying to suss us out before we get close enough to engage in conversation or a fight.

  Thankfully, there’s not much that a frail old man or myself can do in a public space, so the kid is safe for now. I’m also thankful that its not me that engages in conversation with the kid first, but Mr. Grigori. I’d probably shout at him to move and then shoulder bump him for good measure. Cause my 'people skills' are 'rusty'.

  “Are you alright lad?” Mr. Grigori pokes his finger into the boy’s arm, demanding attention. The kid does the last thing I expect him to - instead of standing up straight and demanding the old man be taken away for even touching him, the poor kid jumps and skitters a meter away from the offending appendage; as if he’s scared of an old man’s finger.

  “Ye-Yeah, I’m fi-fine." His eyes are still skittish, eagerly seeking out Finnegan, who’s ginger hair is currently darting around the shop at a breakneck pace.

  I don’t realise that Mr. Grigori has shuffled off towards the poor defenseless guy until he’s already there, curling his hand firmly around the kid’s elbow, patting his hand in that gentle caressing way that only elderly people seem to emanate. The lad is still skittish, but his body deflates, his anxiety refusing to hold his muscles hostage any more. His eyes are still darting around to find his friend running about in the shop - it's only when he finds him that his eyes settle, watching his friend shoot around one aisle before darting up another with such impetus.