Monsterheart

By Robbie Grant

A dragon turned human before the entirety of her species was wiped out by dragon-slayers, K has been accustomed to relying only on herself for five centuries. But now the dragon egg she took with her into her new life is finally close to hatching, and K faces a difficult decision: reclaim her true body and live life on the wing (and the run) with her daughter, or turn her into a human and condemn her to the same lonely existence K has endured for so long? Either way, it means enlisting the help of the Fairy, the untrustworthy magical being who made K a human and broke her heart five hundred years ago, and also of Ty, the Fairy's henchman who seems to know exactly what K's heart needs, and may hold the key to her future. But can she trust either of them?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Shorts
• Release date: Nov 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9781094431611

Book preview

Seas of trees raced by, sapphire, emerald, and obsidian under the night sky. The very air rippled as it rolled over my scales, struggled under my wings, and streamed off my back into the now-distant night. I was the wind, indomitable and free.

Section Break

No. I was standing outside, the ground under my feet. My shoulders were heavy, but not from the weight of wings, and instead of scales I only had a delicate film of skin, a few layers of cells, protecting me from the night air. And freedom? The pit that grew in my stomach as I looked up at the building in front of me told me that I was not, at least, free from my own apprehension. I scanned the building again, searching the crumbling ivy-garlanded brick for the sign. It was crowned in neon lights, which burned loudly into the auburn and violet of the night, advertising the place as the Circle. A bar, a nightclub, a speakeasy-style den of mysterious repute — I knew from the search I had done on it. The speakeasy model, snatched from the last days of Prohibition and used to conceal and distribute a different kind of contraband. The drama was as clear as the joke.

It hadn’t taken much to find where they were situated this century. Lax security, passive recklessness, or a show of power. A word-of-mouth–restricted world turned into a friendly review on a commercial website spinning a mystifying and familiar tale of what was inside. And an address, phone number, and custom cocktail menu.

Lost in my coursing thoughts, I froze as the door opened. Music escaped, like tentacles dancing in subaquatic light. Flickering, writhing, it pulled unfortunate passersby in with the sound of it, the undeniable power from the unseen voice inside. A siren couldn’t sing so beautifully; it was clean, seductive, and really too familiar for my taste. If I had needed confirmation, this would have been it. But the feeling in my stomach, cold tendrils softly brushing my skin, and the sheer fucking aura of it all had clued me in the moment I had seen that obnoxious glowing pink circle.

I still had time, I decided, ironing my white flag and tucking it away again for another time. One more night. I took a deep breath and turned on my heel, away into the dark, away from that catastrophically beautiful sound.

Section Break

The red light pulsed, a tiny heart beating in a busy way. The coffee maker drooled out its steaming offering, a steady stream of burnt-smelling elixir spattering the bottom of a glass pot. The burbling sound called to mind better places (forests, waterfalls, wet overpasses) than the uncomfortably beige walls and muddy carpet of an office. Coffee was an altogether different kind of magic than enchanted bars.

A hand reached out and shook the pot by its orange plastic handle, urging it to drip faster. It’s a three-cup day, I think. Sam was up working until two last night. I couldn’t sleep at all. And this isn’t even the first time this week, I swear.

Her desk is in your bedroom? I asked, already remembering the answer.

Yeah, Mark said, sighing. I fixed it up for her when she started this freelance thing.

Then it’s your fault.

Have a heart, K. He rolled his eyes.

We stood, listening to the coffee trickling into the pot. Waiting, mugs in hand. Sending half-hearted jabs across the kitchen. Conspiratorially ignoring a phone ringing somewhere four offices over. The casual relationship between coworkers who knew too much about each other’s personal lives. Perfectly normal. Easily sustainable. As long as we talked more about Mark’s personal life than mine. A favor he was always happy to oblige.

I had a heart, I told him. But I wasted it on giving obvious advice that got ignored.

The feeble jab hit and he smiled without chagrin. It’s easier being the adviser. Advice is meant to be heard and then catalogued for later use.

How about this? You should move her desk to the living room and stop complaining about her keeping you up.

If she’s keeping me up it means she isn’t sleeping. A weak frown clouded his face; his voice went softer than normal. I had missed something. Context? A missing nut or bolt in my Human Lite package? It was one thing to tease the guy about furniture, but it was another to ask about his marital problems. The line between coworkers and friends was getting blurred. I considered biting the bullet and asking if he was okay, but I was saved when the coffee maker hissed, the blinking light went off, and Mark picked the pot up.

He poured his to the brim and then handed the pot to me. I filled my mug and peered into its steaming brown depths for a moment. The wisps of music were still ringing in my skull, dancing with the ripples in my mug, a pair of citrine eyes glancing back at me. Waiting for me to make the first move…

Are you coming over tonight?

I look up at him. Coming over?

Game night, he said with a shade of exasperation as he poured a tiny plastic creamer into his coffee, the white liquid swirling against the brown, threatening to spill over onto the tiles. You know, every Thursday. You’ve missed every one of them.

Oh, right. Sorry, I actually made plans tonight.

You made plans? Who are you? He was happy for me. I had to consider what that meant for tomorrow. A personal story? A lie?

I decided on: I’m seeing an old friend who is in town.

Well, good for you. How about I rope you into dinner on Sunday? Sam really does want to meet you.

Sure. As I headed for the door, I took a drink from my mug and grimaced. God, it never seems to get better, does it?

Well, if you’d spring for the good stuff, he returned. I shook my head, smiling. Eh, worth a shot. He took a sip and spat it out, his tongue airing its grievances out of his mouth. Shoot, that’s hot. But I was already gone.

Section Break

Back to my spreadsheets. Rows and rows of numbers. My numbers. Sorted, counted, and then distributed by my department. A hoarder’s paradise. These spreadsheets mapped out the progress of this limitless company. Progress revealing itself in the evolution from a tiny desk in a windowless warehouse to a full office with a view of the parking lot, my name on a placard outside my door with my title, Director of Accounting.

I recognized the irony of it, someone like me counting cash. I had held a similar job since the Gold Rush and wasn’t interested in changing careers. It was as easy as it had been back then, easier now that I wasn’t writing by candlelight into a water-stained ledger surrounded by suspicious-minded miners and piles of gold (fool’s and real). This trade was as natural as flying or breathing fire had been before I had met my old friend.

My thoughts drifted back to the neon sign of the bar. I would have to go in this time. There was so much still in my life that I was not ready for, and after six hundred years I really had no excuses left.

Section Break

I stood outside, again, held back at the threshold by a horde of unpleasant (and an army of overwhelmingly pleasant) memories and sensations battling in my chest. I hadn’t seen the owner of that voice for several generations. Infants and their children had come, gone, and rotted since I’d last had a reason to look the Fairy up. I could have done with a few more generations before I had to, but even holding on to the bitterness of a failed love sours over time. Especially when you need a favor. Particularly when the favor was as big as mine.

Preparing to unfurl that proverbial white flag, I approached the door. A man roughly the size and shape of an old wardrobe stood guarding the door. Well, not really a man — I noticed the curious tint of his rough skin, his broad, bulbous nose, and the waves of musky, earthy odor pulsing off of him and concluded that even the best enchantments couldn’t completely hide the ugliness of a troll. He — it — ushered in a trio of people (actual people), two women and a man, who’d arrived in front of me, their clothes at the highest end of ragged chic and their eyes bright behind their masks of indifference. They knew a treat was coming and they could not hold themselves back from it. Once a week, I guessed, the trio (and many other trios) made a pilgrimage here. For the strong drinks or for the unique mise-en-scène, they’d claim. Never, ever admitting that they were under a good old-fashioned enchantment. Glamour was a wonderful business tactic.

I walked up, intending to follow behind them, and the Wardrobe shifted ever so slightly into my path. His crew cut and rough beard practically bristled as his almost-black eyes scanned me. In return, I cut an icy sapphire gaze at him. Something like this was to be expected. Every speakeasy, even the mock ones, had a code. He didn’t ask me who I was, or to see an ID. We just bored our gazes into each other.

Finally I said, I’m here to see Them.

His expression didn’t change. Somewhere deep inside of him an echo started, rumbled through him, and then ended at his mouth as he responded, I don’t know you.

I am a very old friend.

His eyes narrowed slightly. You will not interrupt.

I dipped my chin in agreement. I was not there to make a scene.

Section Break

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the hooded lights inside. Exposed brick ornamented with electric lights and a cloth-draped ceiling. I could hear the steady hum of bricks imbued with decades of glamouring. Leather booths surrounded wooden tables in inviting (and uninviting) corners of darkness. The bartop was long and looked perpetually wet. Its shining surface reflected the ghostly black shapes of the patrons at the bar who could be reflected there, and the surrounding mirrors confirmed that a few of the patrons couldn’t. Security, an insult, or just an aesthetic choice? It had been so long since I had been in a place like this I was no longer sure. Human establishments were simpler,