by Ruby Ryan
But I could do it. For her, I could.
When I unlocked my phone to re-read our texts, I saw that I had another four missed calls from Ethan. He'd even left me a voicemail this time. For him to be this worked up he must have forgotten something in Belize and was hoping one of us grabbed it. Shaking my head in annoyance, I pulled up the voicemail and hit play.
"Roland! It's Ethan. I've been trying to call you for the last three days! Dude, listen, because what I'm going to tell you is really important." He sighed into the receiver. "When we were in Belize, in that cave on the last day..."
Boris strode into the locker room. "Hell of a fight, Irish."
I hung up my phone and tossed it in the locker. I'd listen to it later. "I feel good tonight."
"You looked good." He eyed me, and spoke slowly with his thick Russian accent. "Maybe too good, yes?"
"Unlike the other meatheads you put out there, I don't need to take speed before a fight," I said.
He held up both hands protectively. "Okay, okay. I just ask. Meaning no offense. Do you want another fight, or are you done for tonight?"
I thought about my fight last week, the first loss I'd taken in months. Anger flared up at the memory of the dragon boy's rumbling laughter.
"Is the dragon douchebag around?" I asked. "I want a rematch against him."
"Do you?" Boris frowned at me. "He is still out of your weight class. Unless my eyes are weak, you have not gained 50 pounds of muscle since then."
"Like I said, I'm feeling bloody good tonight."
Boris considered me a moment longer then shrugged. "The dragon man is not around. I can make a call, but no promises. But," he added, "you will fight another tonight, even if I cannot reach him?"
"Aye, I'll fight whoever you've got for me. Just give me an hour breather."
He nodded and went back out to the bar, the noise momentarily louder until the door closed behind him.
I wasn't a smoker, but I went through the back door the smokers took to reach the alley between Boris's bar and the one behind it. The alley was only 12 feet wide, but through that sliver to one side I could see enough of the sky to spot Harriet's constellation. The eagle, with the extra bright star as the head. She was on a plane right now, so she wouldn't be able to see it, but it made my chest tingle to look at it. Something we shared.
I told myself I would look at it every night, just as she promised.
I flexed my right hand. The soreness there was getting worse; I'd need to ice it before my next fight. Even then, I'd probably favor my left hand. Which was fine; whoever it was would be expecting more attacks from my right, so switching it up and using my left would throw him off guard. And it'd give me a challenge.
I liked a challenge.
Harriet was a challenge. At least, compared to what I was used to. She was shy, and bashful, and smart. Incredibly smart. I couldn't use my normal angry fighter facade with her; I had to be myself.
No, that wasn't the right way to say it. Around her I got to be myself. It was a luxury, not a hindrance.
Already, even after just two days together, I'd never been so comfortable around anyone like this. I was vulnerable with her, and she accepted me. I didn't have to put up brick walls and keep her at arm's length like the others.
I was smiling in the cool night, thinking about how wonderful it would be to be myself, when suddenly I wasn't.
Literally.
Pain overwhelmed my body, a lifetime of agony compressed into a single devastating moment. My bones shattered into tiny pieces, my muscles ripped and tore and disintegrated. My skin stretched grotesquely, my teeth shrunk and disappeared. Suddenly my skull was too small for my brain, and it broke and expanded and fused back together. I clenched my eyes shut against the terror that was occurring to me, my body being ripped apart like every fight I'd ever experienced at once, and then as quickly as it started it was done.
I opened my eyes, which were no longer mine.
And with new arms, wings that held feathers and strength, I soared into the sky.
It made no sense, an impossible transition that was so much like a dream. And like a dream, I didn't care. I accepted the ridiculousness of it as I flew higher into the dark sky, a sky which would conceal me against spying eyes. I twisted my eagle's head all the way around to admire my perfect body: the long, graceful wings that I felt with muscle memory like I'd been using them for a thousand lifetimes, lifetimes where I'd dived upon Great War trenches and the swamps of Crimea and even battles I didn't recognize with men who wore Japanese armor and swung deadly swords high above their heads. My feathers were the color of blood, deep crimson that shone almost black by the moon's light. My boxer's mind tried to take over, flexing my hands, and I felt talons and claws scratching at the air beneath me.
I flew high, curving in the sky, and wished I had something to fight.
And then I heard the rumble.
It began like thunder, rolling across the distant land before bubbling across my ears, but it was no thunder for there were no clouds this night. The laughter rumbled in my ears, low and mirthless, with surprise and victory in the tone.
I recognized the laughter, though I could not place it.
The sound filled me with mistrust; though I was shielded by the night sky, it would make it difficult to spot predators as well. I wasn't sure what predators could attack me here in Boston, but I trusted my instinct, and opened my wings wide to glide back down to the roof of the bar, then down into the alley behind.
Like unclenching a fist, I left this form.
I felt like a balloon deflating; my wings receded into my back, leaving me with the lingering sadness of a phantom limb. My feathers were gone before I could blink, and my eyes became so blurry that I struggled to remain upright. I fell to my knees, which were human knees now, and shuddered as my bones and muscle rematerialized into shapes and structures of old.
I gasped for breath, staring at the dirty alley ground.
There was something underneath one knee, which ended up being my boxing shorts. They must have fallen off while I transformed. Shivering, I let impulse take over and clothed myself, then stared up at the dark sky.
I was flying. Just now. Right there, with the Cambridge lights spread out below me.
I didn't seem real. Like I'd hallucinated it.
Before I froze, I went back inside the locker room.
I was shivering uncontrollably now, even after I pulled my jeans over my boxing shorts and frantically put on my shirt and coat. The aftereffects of an adrenaline rush, I knew from experience. The back of my throat was coated in a metallic taste. Everything seemed so dull with my human eyes, like the contrast had been turned all the way down. Like I'd switched from color TV to old black-and-white channels.
My human eyes. That thought alone almost made me laugh with insanity. As if any of what just happened were real.
But wasn't it? The memory was vivid in my brain, and I doubted that I was hallucinating.
Bloody hell. I needed a drink.
"Irish," Boris called as I pushed through the bar, ignoring the crowd that was watching the fight to my right. "Roland! Where are you going?"
I walked down the Cambridge street on springy legs, my hands shoved into my coat pockets. I was hyper-aware of my body now, like it was the first time I'd ever been inside of it, whatever that meant. My fingers tingled, and the arch in my right foot ached with each step. The pain in my ribs was gone, though now there was a sharp pain in my upper back.
Where my wings had been.
I glanced both ways before reaching behind me. I pretended to scratch my back while I poked and prodded myself, searching for anything out of the ordinary. I discovered nothing, even though the memory fresh in my head said they were right there, my wonderful gryphon wings, powerful and strong and the core of what I was.
Gryphon. That's what I was, I realized as the word slid into place. Like the fucken carving I'd been holding.
I walked down the street numbly. I really needed a drink.
The liquor store was bathed in harsh light, glistening off the rows of bottles. I ignored the cashier's polite greeting, scanned the labels on the wall, then headed straight for the whiskey section.
I was squinting at the bottles, looking for something Irish that would remind me of home, when I felt him come.
19
ROLAND
DING DING. The sound of the door opening with a new customer. I turned to glance behind me and saw his shape move across the aisles, stopping on the one I was in.
I almost didn't recognize the dragon boy: he wore jeans with holes in them instead of boxing shorts, and a denim jacket covered in orange and red flames. He stood very still while he stared at me with his single bloody eye.
I turned to face him, and we regarded each other for a long moment.
"Mate, you look like you fell right out of 1985. I don't think denim jackets have come back around yet." I shrugged my shoulders. "Though maybe you're a trend setter."
He flinched and swatted at a fly buzzing around his ear, smashing it against his cheek on the second swing. "Fucking bugs!" He wiped his hand on his jacket and returned his eyes to me.
"You were my guy," he said, voice deep and pleased.
"I didn't know what that meant then, and I still don't know what it means now. But--" I held up a finger, "--if you're here to buy me a drink the way you were supposed to after our fight, then I'll take any Irish whiskey. So long as it's over $100. I've got an expensive taste, yeah?"
A smile spread across his face, and not because of my joke.
The dragon flexed his fingers and took a slow step forward. His boots clicked heavily on the tile floor as he approached, and I could see his intentions in his eyes.
"I've been keen for a rematch," I said as I rolled my shoulders, loosening up, "but I didn't expect it here. There's a perfectly good--"
He lunged forward and swung wide with his left fist, hissing through the air in front of my face as I stepped back. It threw him off balance and I would have had a perfect opening for a counter had I been ready, but by the time I realized we were really going to do this here he'd recovered.
"Stop it!" the cashier yelled, waving his arms. "No fighting in my store!"
The dragon snarled and advanced on me, fists in front of his meaty face. I faked two test jabs at his gut, neither of which he reacted to, and then on the third I sent a real punch there--but that time he was ready, pulling back and hammering one fist down into my wrist. I danced backwards, wincing at the pain.
"Mate..." I said, but there was no stopping my assailant now.
He tried a one-two combo and followed it up with a murderous uppercut; I deflected the first two and dodged the third, sensing the weight of his fist and arm, the power of each of the blows should he land one. He was slowly backing me up, cornering me against the back wall of the liquor store. If I had room to maneuver I could take him, but here I had no chance.
I opened my mouth to tell the cashier to call the cops, but it looked like he was already doing that.
The dragon twisted his entire body in a roundhouse punch, and when I tried to dodge it my shoulders met the back wall of shelves. His fist was a sledgehammer crashing into my arm, knocking me sideways like a pile of firewood. I sprawled on the ground and rose, my entire left arm simultaneously numb and on fire. I tried to lift it protectively but couldn't raise it to eye-level.
Before the dragon could descend on me, I grabbed a bottle of cheap vodka from the bottom shelf. Gripping it by the neck, I swung it with every ounce of my strength.
Smashing a bottle wasn't easy. Not like the movies. Usually the glass didn't so much as crack, and bounced off hard surfaces. Especially thick liquor bottles.
I swung the bottle like a club, expecting it to knock the dragon back, but when it struck his arm it shattered.
Glass and clear liquor exploded in the air and flew in all directions. That surprised me, but it shocked the dragon too, who turned away from the liquor splattering in his face. He stumbled backwards a few steps and wiped at his eyes, face scrunched with pain.
I could've run. There was a moment when the way was clear, a path down the aisle and to the door and out into the free air. But I'd been wanting this rematch for a week, had dreamed about it at night and in the day. Paired with my rising fury at him jumping me in a fucken liquor store? There was no way I could run now. Not with him right in front of me, doubled over with his fingers in his eyes.
I took a long step forward, pulled back my leg, and swung it like I was kicking a corner kick. My shoe caught him straight in the cheek, straightening him from his hunch and sending him backwards into the row of shelves in the aisle. Bottles cascaded down as he broke the shelving, some shattering on the ground but most simply bouncing and rolling away with the sound of glass on tile. He fell onto his side, hand slipping in the liquid and glass, and he pulled back his hand and roared with pain. Blood ran down his palm and wrist from where a shard of glass had lodged itself into his palm.
"Not so tough now, are ya?" I stepped forward, careful to avoid the broken glass. I wasn't the kind of man to hit someone while they were down, but tonight I was going to make an exception. "You picked the wrong Irishman to fuck with, ya did."
I clenched my fist and prepared to strike, but before I could the dragon grabbed a handle of gin with his good hand and backhanded it toward me. I twisted away but it still caught me on the temple like a wrecking ball. Half my vision flashed white for an instant, and I felt myself bump into a shelf of bottles. I grabbed the shelf for support and blinked rapidly, doing my best not to fall. A wave of dizziness came over me, and the lights in the ceiling swayed like we were on a boat.
Somewhere very far away, the store cashier screamed at us. I tried to hone in on where the voice was coming from but it was all I could do just to avoid vomiting.
My only warning was the rush of movement. The dragon roared as he bulled into me, tackling me around the waist and sending us both ten feet backwards into the back wall. I struck the shelves and wall with enough force to knock the air from my lungs, and I winced as bottles fell from above. I swung blind and managed to catch to catch him across the jaw, which probably hurt me as much as him but I didn't care, because I was on the ground and he had the advantage. I kicked up but missed his crotch, then grabbed a bottle from my left and swung it sideways into his knee.
He shrieked with pain and crumpled to the ground, his face a mask of pain, then fury. He clutched at his knee, and I could see the shape of the cashier running in the opposite direction, toward a back door. I tried to get up, but everything was still swaying in my vision. The lights were a pinch too bright. I was concussed for sure. But I needed to fight it.
I pulled back my leg and kicked as hard as I could, smashing the dragon in the nose, feeling the cartilage crunching with sick satisfaction. I pulled back to do it again, and again, as many times as I could, but the dragon was rolling away from me and I still didn't have the stretch to get up.
And then the dragon crawled toward me, easily avoiding the two halfhearted jabs I sent his way, and he pulled back his good hand and pistoned it into my gut. Pain exploded throughout my torso. My diaphragm was paralyzed, too numb to expand and contract. I gasped as I tried to breathe, to allow even the tiniest trickle of oxygen into my lungs, but even that much effort was beyond me.
The dragon knelt in front of me with blood dribbling down his mouth and murder in his eyes.
"You're my gryphon alright," he drawled in that terrible Southie accent. "It will be a pleasure to kill you." Rather than attacking me, his hand felt along my hips, then reached inside each of my coat pockets. He blinked in surprise.
"But..."
I reached around me, found an intact bottle, and swung it at his head. He caught my forearm, stopping me with ease.
His eyes widened with realization.
"You don't have it, do you?"
I wanted to spit in his face, but my mouth was too dry.
The dragon shoo
k his head and rumbled with laughter. "You stupid fucking..."
"Why..." I gasped, finally able to breathe, "do you want... to kill... me?"
He rose on shaky feet, buckling under his wounded knee but managing to stay standing. He bent over to spit blood out on the ground, leaving a strand of spittle across his ugly mouth.
"I don't want to kill you," he admitted. "Not like this. Then the totem will choose another body, and I'll be fighting the ruby gryphon all over again in some other fucking liquor store."
The words would have been gibberish to me even if I weren't concussed.
But then a smile broke out on his face, ghastly with blood covering his pale teeth. "But that's alright," he said, pointing at the wall. I got the impression he was pointing at something far away, like the distant horizon. Somewhere to the south. "Because if you've split up with the totem, then my job is easy. For once, all of this will be easy, and my brothers and I shall defeat you for the first and final time."
He rumbled with that terrible laughter again, and turned to leave.
"STOP!" the cashier commanded. He stood in the middle of the aisle with a shotgun aimed at the dragon. "The cops are on the way. Get out."
The dragon chuckled. "Well now, do you want me to stop, or do you want me to get out? I can't do both."
I was still reacting to the weight of the man's words. That he and his brothers would defeat me, more than just me, and even though I didn't really know what he meant I knew it was the truth. This man was evil. Not just bad, the way a douchebag who jumps a man in a liquor store is bad, but truly evil with blackness in his heart. Whatever he intended, it had implications far worse than what had happened here.
"Shoot him," I gasped.
Both the dragon and the cashier looked at me.
"Shoot him!" I repeated, more gusto in my words. "You have to shoot him!"
The dragon turned to face the cashier. The gun trembled in his hands; he was hardly more than a kid, probably a student at one of the smart kid schools around here. Probably had never even held a gun. The dragon cocked his head at him and took a single casual step forward, testing him.
