Sold To The Dragon Princes: The Novel

by Daniella Wright

  The dragon shifter has a fearsome presence in the room, the kind that creates a one meter space around him, and he doesn’t walk – he prowls with purpose, holding a dangerous gleam in his eyes. I can’t tell their color from this distance, but they’re light. Not brown, like mine. So they could be blue or green or purple like a Targaryen for all I know.

  “Is it just me,” Marvin says, nursing his drink, clearly uncomfortable and possibly regretting his decision to come out with me, “but is there a disproportionate number of men here?”

  It’s true. For every women, there’s at least three men. Another thing, all the women are human females, too. Human males like Marvin are quite rare, but I see a few, enough to know that we won’t be pinpointed and suspected as to our true purpose – which is to gather information. I soak in the establishment with my senses. I hear soft conversation and faint background music, though I don’t recognize the band. The stools beneath us have a soft pad and a bar to rest our feet upon, but we’re all forced into forward slumping positions in the end. The beer has the tangent odor of alcohol, along with a sickly sweet fruit aura, and when it tumbles down my throat, the sweetness fills me up. I have to concede it’s not bad. Not bad at all. Enough to consider making this my second drink as well, and I can tell the alcohol content will allow me to drink a few of these before I start sinking into the drunken realm of no return.

  I certainly can’t lose control here. Not with so many predators around, which is making little alarm bells ring. I wonder if it’s a correlation that predators might have something to do with the rumors of disappearances. Maybe it’s not just trafficking. Maybe it’s meat hunger.

  Though I can’t be certain.

  “So, what should we do with your thing?” Marvin at least has the grace not to say “investigation” out loud, but I put on a sad face anyway, exaggerating my sorrow.

  “Oh, I don’t want to talk about Jeff. He’s the worse. I just wanted to get out of the house because I’m piling up the tissues and I think it might be nice to remember other people exist!” I let out a huge sob for good measure. Marvin tries very hard to not smile or crack a rib from laughter as he leans over to pat me on the back.

  “It’s okay, Alyse. It’s about time you got yourself out that house. Jeff isn’t the end of the world, don’t let him get to you. Look, we might meet some amazing people tonight, yes?”

  “Jeff… you know, he took my flat-screen television. He even took Mr. Tibbles the cat, and left me with the month’s rent to pay, all by myself. I don’t know how I survived that month.”

  “But you did,” Marvin said soothingly, rubbing my back, shaking silently from impulsive mirth, but otherwise going along with the act. We continue our fake conversation for a few minutes, and using my peripheral vision, I spot that there’s about eight or nine shifters listening in interest – including the dragon, and two tigers. When I stamp in the “gay best friend” act, I figure that the bait’s set. It’s far more effective to approach people myself to seem confident, but I know that the pimps and suspicious types are usually the ones to do the approaching, because they have to scout out the crowd. I look relatively young in my outfit, and people still mistake me for an eighteen year old, even though I’m hitting my mid-twenties. There are no conspicuously younger women in this joint that make you question their ages, but there’s enough high schooler types for me to think they’re striking out in their rebellious stage.

  Marvin’s spoken to by a fabulously dressed panther shifter, who seems to be very taken by his bleached blonde hair and slender, wiry frame. Marvin, of course, wasn’t expecting to be hit on, so the fact that a shifter is flirting with him makes both his eyebrows shoot up into his hairline.

  I still harbour that suspicion for shifters, but then again, I’d harbour a suspicion for anyone coming up to my friend, so I politely enquire the panther shifter to try and gauge his intents. I’m good at sniffing out lies. Part of the job occupation, I suppose.

  The panther shifter introduces himself as Gregory. He has a round face, distinctive, jutting cheekbones, eyes with those epicanthic folds, which gives him an almost American Indian look. The wide face holds a strange kind of beauty in it, and my perpetually heartbroken gay friend finds his features attractive.

  “Where do you live, Gregory?” I ask. I need to know if he has a stable family or if he’s a traveller. I need to find warning signs to throw my friend off the scent. “And do you like it there?”

  “My family live in a small apartment building just off the east side of Phoenix,” Gregory says. “Been there about thirty years. My ma wanted to stay in her hometown, and my da wanted to get out of his.” His eyes sparkle with that clarity that lets me know he understands perfectly where I intend to go with the questions. It’s likely the same questions all shifters get. The same Muslims get when they walk somewhere, and people check out their clothes, see if they have a backpack, listen to if they have a name like Mohammed or Ahmed. We’re not exactly shy of our pointed, suspicious natures.

  “I’m all local.” Gregory drawls in the familiar Phoenix accent, exaggerating it, and Marvin lets out a delighted, slightly smitten laugh.

  “You grew up going through the school system?”

  “Yup. My da recommended me to hide my tag, and my ma requested teachers to allow me to take it off during the day. So I went through most of my years with people never realizing I was a shifter. Lot of hate to them.” Now something flickers in Gregory’s face, a remnant of pain. “I won’t deny though, they have rights to be suspicious in places. But the ones like me – the ones who grew up through the system, we’re adjusted.”

  I smell the potential for questions, some answers to the rumors that float around. Who better than to ask a shifter? Even though Gregory is not part of the traditional shifters, the ones who struggle to adapt.

  “You think it’s bad if they’re not adjusted?”

  Gregory gives a small shrug of his shoulders, and Marvin shoots me a are you interrogating my potential date? glare. “Course. Anyone from a different culture is gonna have a bad time if they don’t take the effort to adjust. It’s normal. What makes sense to them doesn’t make sense in other places. My da – he tried real hard. But he’s not used to such dense, populated environments. So my ma helps him out by encouraging camping trips. Da recently bought a place in South America, and he’s a lot happier now.”

  Issues with integrating. Like space. But that’s not the kind of story I’m looking for. Still, I could gather the information for a quick piece, if I don’t find everything I need.

  I continue talking to him, but I don’t uncover anything untoward. The most ominous thing is just the implication of not being able to adapt. Nothing about chauvinism, nothing about women being taken forcibly and trafficked, or sold to shifters to become baby breeding machines, since there are no male shifters, and the bloodline does not pass to females.

  With trafficking, people also go missing every day for many reasons. Running from home. Scooped from the streets as they’re already lost to the system. They’re the hardest to find, because no one knows them or loves them. They fall through the cracks in society into their black pits and never crawl back out. The only ones we can track are the ones who are loved, who have people watching for them and caring. It’s sad, in a way. But it’s what we can expect. Trafficking happens because so many of the people who are taken, have no footprint in society. No records. Nothing at all.

  Without any breakthroughs, I leave Marvin to talk to Gregory, finding nothing wrong with him. He seems polite, self assured and honest, and I can think of a lot worse people who might flirt with my friend. Gregory’s not ashamed of his orientation, either, though I notice a few shifters give him flinty stares.

  So, shifters can be homophobes, too. I mull over this information, but the stones don’t overturn and reveal anything new. So far, they seem like, well. Normal people. People from a different culture, trying to click into the city like a jigsaw puzzle, but sometimes the pieces just
don’t fit, because the puzzle belongs to a different box.

  A city, I have to remind myself, that came from a nation that built itself up steeped in heavy religion, slavery, and dreams.

  With Marvin’s attention clearly elsewhere, and the time sliding past eleven, there still isn’t many people opting to dance. Most prefer to sit around and talk, or play the games offered. Some of the women in the establishment, the younger ones, are draping themselves on sofas, whilst hungry men talk to them. I can smell the lust in the air, detect the hidden crackles of electricity that flare between them – but I can’t see anything illegal. Again, it’s just normal flirting.

  I sigh in irritation. I’ll probably have to come to this joint more times, settle myself as a patron. And I can’t always take Marvin with me. I’ll have to come along, and not have a bodyguard, if some of the shifters will attempt to strike gold with me.

  When Marvin goes off with Gregory to dance on the floor, setting an example for the others who wanted to dance, but not alone – that’s when they close on me.

  A tiger shifter sits on the stool opposite me, whilst the otter shifter asks him if he wants the same drink, and the tiger glances at me hopefully. Just before he opens his mouth to speak, his expression changes from one of nervous hope to one of undisguised fear.

  I look just behind where I’m sitting, and I see the dragon shifter walking towards me, calm and measured, but with that tightly coiled menace in his muscles, the kind that spreads out and oppresses people in his nearby presence without even trying. The tiger grabs his drink and hastily slides off the stool, even as the dragon shifter takes the space, gives me a rather languid, obvious inspection, and examines my second beer, and the empty water glass I had, to try and pace myself between drinks. I’ve not gone to the bathroom yet, and that information sinks into my head, making me more cautious of the idea of leaving my drink lying around, especially with Marvin now getting to know his new possible boy toy.

  At this distance, I see that the shifter’s eyes are gray. I’ve never seen this eye color on anyone before, and the gray is heavy like a storm cloud, dark like the atmospheric pressure of a sky promising rain.

  He has a smooth, clever face, with lips neither too think or too thick, dark red compared to the rest of his pale skin, pale enough to make me think of all those vampire movies I’ve seen. I wonder if he comes from a place of little sunlight, or whether he chooses simply to lurk indoors like some creepy basement dweller. He wears a simple white shirt, gray pants with a black leather belt, polished shoes with a large wedge on the end that would extend beyond his toes – oddly formal but reassuring for this place. Which sends some of the alarm bells ringing in my skull. Enough to give me pause, as he speaks for the first time, his voice undulating around my ears.

  “You’re a new face here, and new faces tend to stick out. About half the shifters in this club are wondering where you came from, if the man beside you was your boyfriend. They’re very interested in you,” he says, a confident smile upon his lips. Dear God, he has a beautiful, almost mesmeric voice, but I keep my focus and reply,

  “And what about you, then? Are you interested?”

  “Perhaps. It depends on if you’re an interesting person. Because looks don’t do it for me. I’m tired of looks, and makeup, and hiding faces under masks. You don’t have much covering your face at all. I can see the laugh lines, the furrow between your eyes that speak of stress, the calculating tap of your eyebrow as you examine the room, taking in everything like a hawk.” He lets out a slow breath, and I’m instantly on alert. He’s observant. And his information suggests he’s been watching me more intently than I first anticipated. I thought I hid it well, but now I have to proceed with caution. If I don’t want to be ousted by any potential traffickers here, I need to either act clueless, or fake my purpose with something clever, and as close to the truth as I dare.

  I do know that it would be unwise to shake him away. Especially when remembering the tiger shifter’s reaction. this individual, for whatever reason, strikes a chord of unease amongst his fellow shifters. I have to figure out whether it’s to do with his animal, or whether it’s something else. Something ominous.

  “You got me,” I say, plastering on a smile, not too big, not too thin, “I recently came out of a relationship with a bastard of a boyfriend. He hated shifters. For me, this is a kind of revenge. I’m here, checking out shifters, studying the people he hated and tried to convince me to hate, seeing if they’re as alien as he claims. So far, everyone seems disappointingly normal.”

  “Hmm.” He digests my words, and seems to find them satisfactory. He then jerks his head towards the dance floor. “Your friend appears to be rather taken with the panther.”

  “Seems like a nice person,” I say coolly, not offering anything else. I decide to strike out and be bold. “Why did the tiger shifter vacate his seat when you came? Don’t feed me lies. He was quite clearly nervous of you. He looked like he wanted to run to the other side of the planet when you came over. And then there’s the personal space bubble around you that you command. What are you, some mafia crime lord or something?”

  The shifter regards me for a moment, before letting out a dry chuckle. “People are uncomfortable with mythical shifters. Long ago, before humans became the dominant species, all shifters worshipped and feared the mythicals. That kind of memory is hard to shake, even now. Mythicals are the only ones to have their own registered country and micro-kingdoms. We still have power and influence. Do you want to know more?” He raises one sandy blonde eyebrow, patiently waiting for me to bite. Cautious, I know I can’t be too obvious with my questions. But it does feel like, from the way he describes himself, that mythical shifters are ideally placed to conduct underground rings, from drugs to human trafficking, to scooping up nameless women and removing them from the map. Especially if other shifters still feel beholden to them.

  “I don’t know. I don’t really care about that kind of thing.” I’m furiously debating in my mind. I mean, I always knew it might be a possibility, but I hadn’t expected anything like this to happen so suddenly. The possibility I might need to enter into a fake relationship, drag one of the shifters along as I delve for information I’m not supposed to have. Fuck it, I think. Let’s try. Let’s see if I can scoop this candy from the bucket. “I care more about whether shifters are any good in bed. Whether it’s true what they say, that they’re like the animals people rumor them to be.”

  The shifter smiles darkly. He faces the otter bartender, and says, “Get whatever the lady was drinking. With a little more strength.” He pinches his forefinger and thumb together. I notice how the otter bartender blinks, swallows nervously, before bobbing his head and ducking down to grab another drink.

  “He’s a bit anxious of you as well,” I note, drumming my fingers on the hard wood surface, taking in the smell of the alcohol infused air, and a faint musk, like brimstone, from the dragon shifter.

  “I know. It can be tiresome,” the shifter says. “I’m known as Balthier. What’s your name, pretty one?”

  Pretty one? I find an odd amusement in that phrase, as well as a strange lurch of something in my stomach. Like a fish leaping, or a worm burrowing deeper into soil. Not butterflies. It’s not a pleasant feeling, I think, because it leaves me a little nervous, a little shaky. “I’m Alyse. Alyse Manson,” I reply, now untying my ponytail, so that my hair tumbles free. It was starting to hurt as well, but I like the way my soft hair cascades, and he follows the movement briefly, before snapping those iron gray eyes of his back to me.

  “If you’re looking for an experience with a shifter, there’s plenty to choose from. But if you’re looking for an experience unlike anything you’ve ever felt before… we of the mythical branch have something… that can send you dipping into ecstasy, with your mind shrinking so small into itself, that you forget who you are, and only the experience persists.”

  If he didn’t have that calm assurance, that alluring voice, those attention grabbing
eyes, and to die for cheek bones, I probably would have found his statement insane. Laughed in his face. But instead, and maybe it’s the alcohol in my system, I mull over the words, intrigued. Thrilled, even. I don’t think anyone’s ever stated to me before that they have the ability to fuck my brains out and reduce me to mindless pleasure. That kind of thing only exists for everyone else. Not me.

  But, you know. It’s been four years. I’ve forgotten the thrill. It stirs up in me now, rearing like a snake, shrugging off the dust of abstinence, remembering the ways I used to masturbate at night to memories, before I sank into my job and stopped giving my body such attention, when I still felt pissed off at my last boyfriend for doing what he did.

  The drink arrives, and I toast him, before drinking from the bottle. It has a different taste to it, a kind of oaken tang, and a stronger alcohol content which bubbles in the back of my throat.

  We continue our darting conversation, like boxers sending jabs at one another, trying to find the chinks in our armor, the taboo subjects we can’t talk about. I have to be aware of my purpose, my original purpose here, and I have to remind myself that Balthier will be a fantastic opportunity, if I can get closer to a figure of clear influence.

  That means, I can’t be attracted to him for real. Physical attraction, though – that’s okay. People can fuck, and nothing comes of it. I’m not sure why Balthier is showing interest in me, though, because there’s a lot prettier girls in the vicinity. But he’s chosen me.