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Most of the adults were inebriated to some degree and he saw several opportunities for hunting as he
departed the clearing: one man staggering into the woods toward his cabin; two women arm in arm, laughing,
paying scant attention to their surroundings; Tuttle and his jovial wife making their way to a wagon drawn by two
horses that would take them to their farm on the edge of town. They made it almost too easy.
He saw Eugenia Bailey, her cheeks high with color, unsteadily waltzing in the general direction of home. He
knew where her cottage was. He’d seen it once from the air. She earned his full regard for exactly thirty seconds
before his mind was made. The nearest shadow belonged to a building lining the main street and Dréoteth sank
into the confining darkness to hide his malicious intent.
He followed her by scent rather than sight, silent now that he was actually hunting. His boots made no sound
at all on the ground and his posture, should anyone have gotten a glimpse of him, was absolutely predatory. He
didn't crouch or hunch or creep through the shadows, he stalked.
The fog grew thick and cloying around the buildings, reducing visibility to less than ten feet. Just before the
gauzy mist swallowed her whole, he saw her glance back. He noticed the wariness in her astute gaze, recognized
the first trickle of fear. Even with several goblets of wine in her system, this woman was still intuitive. Not for
the first time, Dréoteth wondered if humans had an extra sense that allowed them to detect danger. Something
they were barely even aware of, ingrained into the core so deep that they couldn't separate it from senses much
easier to define and explain.
He didn't allow her to see him. Stepping away from the last building, he took three large, lunging strides and
launched into the air. At first it seemed like he wouldn't do anything other than fall flat on his face.
But then, then, his lean body grew ultra streamlined. When his arms snapped out to the sides, they became
wings. The change happened smooth and effortless, his olive skin growing scales, his maw filled with needle
sharp teeth. Hard ridges protruded above the slits of his eyes, along his sinuous spine and around the oval shape
of his nostrils. Smaller hooks ran the length of his tail, which ended not in the shape of a spade or something
equally devilish, but a tapered point. The wedge-silhouette of his head looked sleek instead of blocky.
Dragons of lore were often described as bulky and large, but this creature was serpentine. Snake-shaped.
Built for stealth and speed.
An iridescent blue sheen gleamed across his black scales whenever moonlight struck it just right.
Climbing above the foggy veil, he glided over treetops. Below, Eugenia was nothing more than a vague
presence of heat with the fog between them. Guided by that and the sound of her running feet, he sliced down
through the mist at a wicked, deadly angle. Under his belly, his talons curled tight and close, his long tail
whipping behind him for turns and balance.
***
Something felt strange about the night. Eugenia couldn't say what made her glance back, or start running.
Maybe it was the thick fog, the poor visibility, or the wine. The hair stood up on the back of her neck and
goosebumps swarmed down her arms under the sleeves of her dress. It was a bad time to remember the dark
whispers about what kind of threat lurked in Malmsbury: a crazed citizen, gypsies and curses, witches and spells.
She tripped over the gnarled knob of a root and went down with a thump and a gasp.
She felt the sudden rush of a brisk breeze but it wasn't like any wind she'd experienced before. It seemed
too... contrived. As if something enormous had just flown past, low and threatening. The soft whoosh reminded
her of wings, but even the biggest owl or eagle couldn't have felt large enough to blot out the sky. She couldn't
see the sky, but the impression was the same.
Scrambling to her feet, breathless, she paused to listen. She looked for silhouettes in the fog that didn’t
belong, for shifting shapes, lumbering bodies. Her imagination was running away with itself.
The mist should have felt protective, cloaking her from prying eyes. Instead she felt blind and exposed.
Something was out there.
She knew it as sure as she knew her own name. Shirking etiquette with shocking swiftness, she snatched up
handfuls of her skirt and started running.
Her cottage could only be another hundred feet, if that, ahead of her.
Almost there.
Keep running, don’t trip, don’t look back.