Bad Dragons: Special Edition Complete Series

by Terry Bolryder

  I see the line at the back starting to reach the end, and I can see something being exchanged between the guests and the person at the booth.

  “So everyone here is fighting to take me?”

  Byron nods.

  Damn, this is awful.

  “Obviously, I can’t enter because I’d never be stupid enough to put on one of those collars,” Byron says with a huff, brushing something I can’t see off his shoulders. “Just being in this place makes me want to go home and take a shower.”

  My heart drops. I guess I hadn’t even considered that he wouldn’t or couldn’t help me. I’m in for it now.

  My eyes sting as I realize how stupid I’ve been. Did I really think Griffin or Seth or Rainier would find me in time?

  So stupid.

  Byron winces slightly. “I’d break you out if I could, but I can’t. Everyone knows Azrael. He’s as dangerous as he is vile. Even if I could break the cage, we’d be as good as dead.”

  “Where’s Van?” I ask, eyes darting around, searching for him.

  “He didn’t come. It’s just me,” Byron says.

  “Oh.” I’m not sure what to make of that. I guess I’m not surprised that Van doesn’t care. I just didn’t think Byron would go anywhere without him.

  “I go wherever I want, when I want. I do whatever I want,” Byron retorts, puffing up.

  But I’m too exhausted to fight back anymore. I miss home. I miss my family. I miss having something to hope for.

  “Just go.” My voice is a dry whisper. My arms and legs are starting to ache. And pretty soon, some likely drunken asshole is going to be taking me as a literal prize for beating up other guys.

  Byron steps back, then lets out a frustrated growl. He paces, scratches his head, looks around, then finally stomps off, looking furious. “You should have just stayed where you were,” he yells back to me, loud enough that I can hear him as he disappears among the throng of male bodies, pushing them out of the way until his golden hair is no longer visible.

  But before I spend any more time feeling sorry for myself, there’s a loud crash like the sound of a gong made out of trash cans, and everyone’s attention is turned to the center of the ring off to the side.

  Flint is standing in the middle, holding a beat-up megaphone that looks like it’s from the eighties, and there’s a loud din that sounds as he first turns it on, then raises it to his mouth.

  “Contestants, make your way to the back to receive your collars. The culling begins in ten minutes!”

  At that, there’s a thunderous male roar, and the crowd splits in two. Some of the people disappear through a door next to the booth at the back and others make their way to sit on logs or beat-up chairs surrounding the arena, while the rest stand at the edge, just watching.

  Then suddenly, my cage is being picked up, and I’m being moved with it to be placed on top of a two-foot tall pedestal that’s a few feet removed from the dirt ring, several men with weapons standing guard next to it.

  I take in a dusty gulp.

  I guess this is it, then.

  39

  Anna

  “Residents of the Blur, welcome to our main event here at the Pit tonight,” Flint says, addressing the crowd, which is packed to the brim with tall, muscly men and women. Above him, a few scattered lights cast the arena in a dim glow, while above, a cloudy, starless sky looks down.

  What I would give to look at normal stars again.

  “First off, we all know the rules for the fight.” Flint continues. “No leaving the ring, last man—or woman—standing gets the grand prize, and all fighters must wear their collar until the end of the match.” The crowd, unamused, ignores him as he ticks off numbers on his hand. “And what are our brave contestants fighting for?”

  From somewhere, a flashlight bears down on me, blinding me momentarily.

  “A real, live human woman!” Flint says, and there’s a collective gasp from the viewers, along with catcalls and applause. “That’s right. She’ll be going home with one of our lucky fighters. So without further ado, let’s welcome them into the ring!” Flint waves his hand, and a large, almost medieval-looking door swings open behind him.

  At that, a throng of dudes strides into the ring, flanking Flint on both sides. All of them are tall, muscled, and mean-looking, and all of them are wearing collars that look like they’re made of heavy iron a couple inches thick. But honestly, there’s no point trying to guess who will win because each one is probably as evil as the next.

  More and more pour in, almost filling the space behind Flint, so they trickle around the sides, some of them coming to stand near me. All of them are watching me, wanting me, and it makes me want to tap my heels three times and wish for home.

  “Wow,” Flint exclaims. Even he’s surprised by the number. “Now isn’t that a lot, folks?” Flint jokes.

  And then I see gold hair. In a color I’ve only seen once in my life. And then I see Byron’s head and shoulders above the others, coming around the edge of the arena to stand right in front of the cage, only a few feet from me.

  Is this really happening?

  “Don’t go getting funny ideas about this, dragon heart. I’m just taking back what’s rightfully mine,” he whispers loudly over his shoulder, not looking at me, arms folded as he faces the center.

  I want to say thank you. Say something, anything. But I’m too flabbergasted. Both at this whole display and the fact that Byron is here too.

  I thought he’d left.

  “Not everyone is a total piece of shit here. Just so you know,” Byron exclaims matter-of-factly. “And I’m going to prove it to you once and for all. And then you’ll really know who’s the best.”

  “Well, I guess that’s everyone,” Flint calls out, silencing the murmuring crowd. “Contestants, you know the rules. You know the prize.” The dozens of men around him nod, and Flint starts to back away from the arena.

  Byron looks over his shoulder and just nods at me before stepping forward and into the middle of the ring, surrounding himself with dudes that look like they could be ax murderers in the human world.

  But for the first time in hours, I can feel a glimmer of something inside me, making my body feel less heavy, less achy.

  Hope.

  “Fight!” Flint’s voice calls out, and suddenly, the entire circle explodes with motion. There are punches, kicks, and elbows being thrown in every direction, accompanied by grunts and screams and shouts coming from both the crowd and the fighters.

  In the center, I try to watch Byron as his fist slams into a nearby man’s jaw, followed by him grabbing another by the throat and throwing them to the ground in a move that’s as vicious as it is fast.

  Even without his dragon powers, Byron is strong.

  Perhaps those muscles are good for more than just looking at.

  A stray fist flies forward, catching him in the shoulder, and he whirls around, kicking the person next to him in the gut (though I’m not sure it’s the guy who even hit him in the first place). His hair whips as he moves back and forth as the whole arena undulates with movement, golden eyes flicking quickly side to side.

  Around us, the crowd is hooting and hollering, and on my left, one of the fighters gets knocked out of the circle, bumping into several of the viewers. To my dismay, instead of helping them back in, the crowd grabs the man and begins to beat him senseless in the corner, a miniature version of the extreme violence in front of me.

  I guess that’s why there’s a rule about leaving the circle.

  I try to keep focused, my heart racing so hard I can feel my pulse in my neck, my legs, my arms. For a moment, I lose Byron in the sea of flailing limbs and bloody faces, the motion of so many bodies kicking up a haze of dust that makes it impossible to see from one end of the arena to the next.

  There’s a loud oof, and a man falls to the ground below me. When he looks up, I can see blood trickling down the side of his face, as well as several bruises.

  But instead of turning b
ack to the arena, his expression fills with an almost feral gleam. For a moment, I’m afraid he’s going to rush toward me, consequences be damned, and all my nerves start to tense up.

  “Mine,” I can hear him grunt, but at my sides, the guards seem more interested in watching the brawl than they are at doing their job.

  Then suddenly, a large, tanned hand appears, grabbing the man from the ground and yanking him onto his feet. And before I can process what’s happening, Byron’s fist connects with the man’s face so hard my body flinches.

  “Not yours. Mine,” Byron says, his voice a dark growl, just before he tosses the unconscious man into the center of the ring where he disappears into the mass of fighting.

  Then he looks at me, flashes a grin, and winks.

  He actually winks.

  My God.

  And then he’s charging into the fray, which is thinning more and more with each passing minute. And as bodies fall to the floor, robed helpers on the side drag the bodies away through the giant door, clearing space. Others, still able to move but beaten out of any fighting shape, limp away with them into the darkness.

  Until there are only a few left. All of them are the largest and meanest-looking ones, behemoths by human standards, some with beards and others with clean-shaven faces but all with at least several bumps or bruises from all the fighting.

  Byron faces off with one, dodging a wild swing, then giving a swift knee into the shorter man’s chest, knocking the wind out of him. The man falls to the ground, and Byron raises his fist in warning before the guy starts to drag himself away weakly.

  Across the ring, there are a few groaning or unmoving bodies, and the dirt is covered with sprays of dark red that pool in certain areas.

  On the other side, there’s another man who’s finishing off his last opponent too. He’s tall, almost nearly as tall as Byron, but much broader-shouldered, with thick brown hair and a long beard that goes past his neck.

  Only, he’s not just finishing off his opponent. He’s crushing him, pummeling him over and over with his fist until I can’t tell where his fist ends and the other guy’s face starts. Then he grabs the man with both hands and headbutts him, sending him flying backward.

  Leaving just two men standing in the arena.

  Next to me, the guards whisper to each other.

  “Hey, is that the fucking gold dragon right there?” one asks the other.

  “Pfft, no way,” the other replies. “Besides, even if he was, my money’s on the dire bear. Bruce is a fucking freight train.”

  “What’s a freight train?”

  “I don’t know. It’s an expression.”

  They continue to bicker while I watch Byron brush himself off. All things considered, he’s relatively unhurt, except his perfect hair is mussed and he has a few bruises here and there, all in places that aren’t his face.

  Then the other man, Bruce, who’s apparently a dire bear (whatever that is), lets out a loud, primal scream that makes my veins tighten and my heart stop for a moment. The blood on his face doesn’t help.

  “If I were you, I’d just give up now,” Byron says, lowering his brows and folding his arms, showing off his ever-impressive biceps. “Because you’re going to regret coming between me and what’s rightfully mine.”

  The murderous lumberjack on steroids doesn’t say anything. Instead, he just growls.

  And then he charges.

  For someone so big, he’s surprisingly fast, and he manages to grab Byron in a bear hug with his meaty arms. Byron struggles for a moment, then rears his head back to slam Bruce in the face. I hear a loud thud, and Bruce growls.

  Then he tilts back and slams Byron in the face even harder.

  Byron falls to the ground, hitting the dirt roughly. He lifts his finger to his nose and grimaces when he sees red.

  But Bruce is already advancing, grabbing Byron by his shirt, which rips in two under the weight of the huge, six-something man, leaving him shirtless.

  As sexy as it would normally be to get a view of all his washboard abs, I’m too worried, too distracted by the bloodthirsty hulk that is Byron’s opponent.

  Without the collar, I have no doubt he would have no trouble with this guy. But I don’t know how much it’s limiting his strength or even if the collars are necessarily consistent in how effectively they work.

  Byron takes the unexpected opportunity from his torn shirt and throws a powerful punch into Bruce’s face, connecting with his jaw and making his face snap to the side. But Bruce keeps coming, throwing a punch of his own that hits Byron in the side of the face, and he staggers momentarily.

  “Fuck,” I can hear him say as the crowd roars in excitement.

  Come on, Byron. You can do it.

  Growing up, I was never one for sports, particularly violent sports. But having my whole future hanging in the balance means I can’t take my eyes off the center of the circle.

  Byron’s gold eyes flash at me, then to the side as Bruce swings his meaty fist. Byron ducks beneath it, then delivers a devastating uppercut into Bruce’s chin. I hear something crack, though I have no clue what body part did the cracking. But Byron doesn’t stop there, taking the small opening where Bruce is stunned to lay several fast punches into his thick gut.

  The crowd continues to go wild, and Bruce keels over, holding his stomach. Then, with one last kick to the face from Byron, the giant man goes down onto the dusty floor with a thunderous thud.

  Byron raises his arms to the sky, and the watchers hurrah and clap. At first, he looks around him, soaking in the praise of the onlookers.

  Then he’s looking at me, and his eyes lock there. Even as the people continue to cheer, he lowers his hands, walking toward me. Even bloodied, his face is so handsome, so masculine.

  And he blows me a kiss.

  For the first time in what feels like forever, I smile. In the background, Bruce is dragged away by several men, and Flint comes to stand next to Byron in the center of the ring.

  “We have a winner! What a display!” he says, trying to put an arm on Byron, which he frowns at and shrugs off.

  “Just give me my prize so we… I mean I can get out of this hellhole,” he tells Flint gruffly.

  Flint smiles as more guards come from somewhere behind me, and my cage is lifted and brought to sit next to Byron. His eyes are watching me as someone else drapes a dirty-looking, shimmery coat on Byron’s shoulders, which he ignores.

  And why are there so many guards all of a sudden?

  Flint’s going on and on about the Pit and things that are so much less important than finally being free of these chains, and I can see a muscle tick on the side of Byron’s jaw.

  “We get it, Flint. I’m going now,” Byron says, coming toward me. But just as he’s about to put his hands on the cage, so near I can almost feel his warmth, someone comes up behind him, one of Flint’s guards.

  I open my mouth to scream, but a heavy club swings harshly down, smashing Byron in the back of the head, and he collapses to the ground face first.

  “Byron!” I cry out. He isn’t dead. He can’t be.

  “Tsk, tsk,” Flint says, his expression grave. “Forgetting something, are we?”

  “Dammit,” Byron growls as he tries to push himself up. His fingers pull limply at the iron brace around his neck, but it doesn’t give an inch.

  “Not so strong now, are you, dragon?” Flint says. A moment later, he pulls his leg back and kicks Byron in the side, forcing him to roll onto his back.

  “No!” I struggle with the chains around me. No use.

  Nearby, the crowd is grumbling, but the guards have formed a circle around the arena, suppressing any dissidence on the part of the onlookers.

  “Let us go. You promised.” I address Flint, glaring daggers at the weasel of a man.

  “Did I, though?” He looks at his fingernails, seeming bored. “Do you have any idea how much money you made me tonight? Besides, no one here will care if there’s one less dragon around. And everyone else w
ill get another shot at you tomorrow night.”

  My lungs burn with anger. On the ground, Byron tries sit up on his elbows, but one of the nearby guards smashes the blunt end of a spear-like weapon into his chest and I hear him grunt. Then another guard takes a turn at beating him too. I can see their grins, like they’re enjoying it, a free chance at hurting someone bigger and stronger than them.

  Now I really want to vomit.

  “Please, let us go.”

  Flint strolls up to the cage, a sinister glint in his eyes. “No. You’re going to make me rich, twice. In the meantime, I have a bed at home that’s just dying to have you in it.” His pale-blue eyes send a shiver of fear up my spine.

  “Fuck you.” I snarl, my attention back at Byron on the ground. He’s barely moving, barely breathing.

  “Guards, disperse the crowd and finish off this fool dragon.”

  “What about the girl?” one of his henchmen asks.

  “Take her to my room,” he says with a yellow-toothed grin.

  Suddenly, there are men around my cage, about to lift it off the ground when the sound of something heavy and wooden smashing at the other side of the Pit resonates through the arena.

  I look over my shoulder to see a dark-haired figure standing at the entrance, long black hair casting his face in shadow, except for the bright gleam of purple irises that seem to practically glow in the dim light.

  “You’re not taking them anywhere.”

  40

  Anna

  There’s a hush that settles over the entire place. Even Flint’s mouth is shut tight as Van struts into the building, moving past the bar area on long legs. It’s only then that I realize he’s wearing his long black trench coat over his black pajama pants.

  He’s shirtless, abs and chest on display and hands shoved into the pockets of his coat as he walks in like he literally owns the place.