The Wrath of Monsters

By Dan Rice

Can Allison and her friends save the world without becoming monsters?

Allison hoped her life would be free of torment after escaping the faeries. No sooner than Allison and her friends return home, the government imprisons Bria and Haji on a military base where scientists experiment on them. Allison’s plan to rescue them backfires when she reveals Bria’s location to the faeries, who mount a raid to capture the faery child. With Bria’s blood, they can create more enthralled super magicians to wage war against humanity.

The attack on the military base is just the beginning. When an electromagnetic pulse knocks out the power for the west coast of the United States, it is clear more powerful foes than the faeries are invading Earth.

• Language: Unknown
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Jun 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9781509254682

Dan Rice

Dan Rice pens the young adult urban fantasy series The Allison Lee Chronicles in the wee hours of the morning. The series kicks off with his award-winning debut, Dragons Walk Among Us, which Kirkus Review calls, “An inspirational and socially relevant fantasy.” While not pulling down the 9 to 5 or chauffeuring his soccer fanatic sons to practices and games, Dan enjoys photography and hiking through the wilderness. To discover more about Dan’s writing and keep tabs on his upcoming releases, visit his website: https://www.danscifi.com and join his newsletter.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Remote school is deadly…for my mental health. So is being locked up in my room. Of course, I choose to be locked up in my bedroom, but still. I never chose to have security agents, some of them actual magicians, stalking me through the house twenty-four by seven. I never asked for any of it, but here I am, staring at my laptop’s screen, trying to do pre-calculus homework. The problem is I can’t make heads or tails out of linear equations and logarithmic functions.

My hand strays from my wireless mouse to my camera on the study table beside the laptop. My fingers brush against the device’s cool metallic and rubberized body. I’d love to go outside to take pictures, but I need permission to leave the house from Agent-in-charge Leroy McAllister. Sometimes I wish that man had his neck twisted like fusilli, I really do, but then I remember Agent Deveraux’s neck misshapen like that, and acid rises up my throat. My hand goes to my chest. My throat and back of my mouth burn.

I stand and reach for the laptop to close it but stop myself. Dalia promised to help me with my math homework. She might video call or message me any time now. Instead, I wrap my fingers around the camera’s grip and enjoy the tactile nature of the rubber. My go-to photographic subject is a precarious stack of dirty dishes on the tabletop behind the computer. The acid on my tongue turns me off from photographing anything remotely related to food.

I try to take all my meals in my room; it’s the only place I won’t have an agent watching my every move. I glance around the bedroom, eyeballing every corner. Presumably, they don’t watch me while I’m here. I wouldn’t believe them, except I’ve scoured every nook and cranny of the room with my prosthetic eyes, zooming in and out, and searching for heat signatures or the lack thereof in IR mode. Never found anything. I wouldn’t put it past the magicians from the UN Draconic Task Force to surreptitiously observe me by magical means, but my father, who is the last remaining archmagus, ensures me they aren’t watching. If I can believe him after sixteen-plus years of lies.

Sighing, I pick up my camera and cross the room, stepping on dirty and clean clothes to the head of my unmade bed. Next to the pillow, a giant kitty cat stuffy stares at me with unblinking eyes. I flip the cat around, so it stares at the wall. I pull up the blind shading the window on the wall behind the head of the bed and am greeted by another day of March gloom: endless gray clouds and drizzle. Nothing inspiring to photograph, but at least the crowd I hear from the street in front of the house protesting my existence probably numbers less than twenty instead of closer to one hundred. The increased security since I was kidnapped by a team of magician commandos led by none other than my nemesis Gore, a drug-crazed magic-wielding assassin, has the wonderful silver lining of keeping most of my detractors and fans at bay.

The room is stuffy, so I open the window. The cold outside air caresses my cheeks, bringing with it the scent of rain and automobile exhaust from the main drag a quarter mile up the street. Nose crinkling, I slam the window shut.

A sharp rap comes from the door. Is everything okay in there?

I wince at the high-pitched voice of Valentina Lopez, Draconic Task Force agent and a magician of unknown ability. As long as she keeps her magic to herself and her mouth shut, Valentina is tolerable. But whenever I hear her overly feminine voice, I wish she was sucked down the kaleidoscopic black hole displayed on the poster adorning my door.

Just airing out the room.

I cross the room and flop down in my chair. Placing my elbows on the desk, I massage my temples and stare at the linear equations on the screen. My eyes lose focus, the numbers, letters, and mathematical symbols slithering into pen and ink faeries, dragons, and skaags. The creatures whorl into a true monster, a doctor with her face hidden behind a mask. Gasping, I slam the laptop shut. The sleeper ripples inside me, making my skin feel like it crawls from the inside out. The beast wants out to rend flesh from bones, but I can’t allow that. My half-skaag form, a cross between a super-sized alligator and a gargantuan eel, is small compared to a full-blooded skaag, but it is still large enough to destroy my room and probably bring the entire house down in the process.

No! I can’t do that. I can’t transform. She’s dead.

The sleeper’s deadly desires still ooze through my mind, making my heart race and mouth water—ewww—but my bestial side settles itself.

She’s dead, I say out loud for both sides of me to hear, the human and the skaag. She can’t dissect you. She’s dead.

I lose track of how many times I’ve repeated this to myself when my ancient flip phone vibrates, rattling across the desk. I pick up the phone and flip it open. A text from Dalia.

—Tried video calling you…ready to hit pre-calc?—

I chicken peck out a response with my index finger, cursing my dad the entire time for not allowing me a proper phone. ––No, but I need your help, or I’m going to flunk—

Dalia responds instantaneously. I can imagine her thumbs flying over her phone’s pop-up keyboard. —Call me. I’m online.—

I open the laptop and start up the video chat app, placing the call by clicking on an icon that is a close-up of Dalia’s face with pink bangs and a golden hoop nose ring prominently displayed. My BFF picks up after the first ring.

Sorry I’m late. Track tryouts went a little long, Dalia says, smiling and bubbly and apologetic all the same time.

How did you do? Before The Incident, we ran cross country together, and Dalia was always the faster runner. Now, with my half-skaag prowess at my disposal, I can set world records at any distance.

Pretty good. I don’t know. Dalia flashes an uncertain smile. I finished second in the two-mile after Leslie. She’s so fast. I didn’t do as well at the other distances. Hopefully it’s enough to make varsity.

I’m sure you’ll make varsity. I stifle a pang of jealousy. She has nothing to complain or worry about. At least she’s allowed to attend school live and in person. Meanwhile, I’m told by my innumerable government minders I should count myself lucky I’m not locked away on a military base or a secret supermax prison.

I hope so. I’ll die if I don’t make varsity. A sound comes from offscreen. Dalia looks toward the noise. Would you leave? I’m doing homework. She moves off-screen, expression harried.

From the laptop’s speakers comes the sound of a door being slammed super hard. Dalia reappears on screen, sighing as she sits. Sometimes I can’t wait to move out.

At least you can head to the bathroom without Valentina watching you, I say.

Oh geez, I know, you have it so much worse.

I inwardly scold myself for being waspish. I haven’t been sleeping well and being cooped up all day…

More nightmares? Dalia whispers.

My eyes go wide, and I give Dalia a meaningful glare. Yes, I’ve had more dreams, but I don’t want to talk about them using laptops we both know are monitored by the government. To be honest, I don’t want to talk about my dreams with anyone, ever. I just want them to stop.

Is Leslie still pissed at Jason? I ask, hoping to change the subject.

Light glimmers on the edge of Dalia’s nose ring. That’s putting it mildly.

Dalia fills me in on what's happening at school for thirty minutes or more before we move on to tackling our math homework. With my friend guiding me through the problems, I don’t know if I understand the mathematics better, but at least the numbers and symbols aren’t morphing into monsters.

Dalia is in the middle of explaining a particularly gnarly problem when an explosion shakes the house.

What the… I mumble and twist in the chair to stare out the window. I don’t see any sign of the explosion. Outside in the hallway I hear Valentina talking. With my preternatural hearing, I should be able to eavesdrop on the conversation, but the words are muffled. I wonder if the agent is using magic to prevent me from listening in.

Allison, what was that? I heard a loud boom.

I turn back to the laptop. Dalia stares, nervously chewing on the tip of her thumb. Explosion maybe? I’m going to check it out, I say.

Be careful. Text me, Dalia says.

I will. I close the video app and shut my laptop.

Standing, I grab my phone, stuffing it into my front pocket, and swing my camera over my shoulder by the strap. I march to the door and throw it open.

Valentina blocks my path. Stay in your room.

Her voice is like fingernails scratching a chalkboard, but I manage not to cringe.

I’m going to photograph the aftermath of the explosion or whatever. I heft my camera.

Agent Lopez gives me her best condescending smile. At least we’re about the same height, so she doesn’t look down her nose at me while she does it. No leaving the house without McAllister’s approval. You know the rules, Allison.

Your rules, not mine. I barge past her, shouldering her aside, gently, of course.

Agent McAllister and Dr. Radcliffe will hear about this, young lady!

Don’t I know, I call as I head downstairs for the entryway. I hear Valentina following, but she doesn’t try to stop me.

In the entryway, Agent Haskell guards the front door. He stands well over six feet and is about as wide as a silverback gorilla, so he looks down his nose when speaking to me. Allison, you don’t want to go out there. Believe me. He placatingly spreads out his arms. Honest, you’ll find it upsetting.

I look the giant up and down. Is that a new suit? It’d be a shame if you got blood on it.

Haskell steps aside, giving me access to the door. He whispers as I grab my raincoat from a hook beside the entrance. Be careful. Valentina will report you for threatening me.

I open the door and step outside into the cold, damp afternoon to a flurry of activity. Security agents and soldiers have corralled and silenced the protesters on the sidewalk. People speak on their cell phones or walkie-talkies, and some snap photos. Most everyone stares at a dark cloud rising over the houses a few blocks away in the direction of the home of the first boy I ever kissed and one of my best friends in the whole world.

Oh my God! I gasp. Haji.

Chapter 2

Pulling on my raincoat, I step out into the wet and blustery evening. I do my damnedest to ignore the agents and the protesters, who start screaming vitriol when they spot me. I’m pretty good at it because I have tons of practice.

It’s only a little past five, but already the city is dark under the ominous clouds, promising a night of rain pounding against rooftops. My fire engine red hair is matted down before I manage to pull up my hood. I wrap my jacket around my camera to keep the device from getting soaked. It’s water resistant, but I don’t need to test that out.

Agent Haskell follows me down the crack-riddled concrete path through the front yard toward the street. The branches of the cherry tree sway in the wind and creak as we pass beneath them. In the vicinity of my friend’s house, dark smoke continues to billow.

Sir, she’s leaving the house.

Haskell speaks into his phone behind me. Getting permission from McAllister, evidently.

Yes, sir. I understand.

Gnawing on my lower lip, I pull out my ancient flip phone and dial Haji’s number. The call goes immediately to voicemail.

Haji, why is your phone off? I whisper as I hit the speed dial for Dalia.

She answers on the second ring. What happened?

An explosion. I think it might be Haji’s house.

I’ll be right over, Dalia says.

No. Stay put for now. Try to contact Haji. I called him, but he won’t pick up.

I’m on it. Call me if you find out anything.

I will. I end the call, closing the moisture-slickened device and thrusting it into my pants pocket.

Allison, let me drive you. Haskell nearly shouts to be heard over the howling wind. He doesn’t need to. He could whisper, and I’d probably hear him despite the noise.

I can get there faster on foot. I need to run. I need to know what happened and to make sure Haji is safe. I must because if anything bad happened to him, anything at all, it’s more than likely my fault.

Hear me out, Allison, Haskell says, a pleading edge to his voice.

Clenching my jaw, I slow my pace. I don’t want to hear anything Haskell has to say. He’s part of the government protection detail I don’t need or want that makes my life miserable, but I owe him. I hate feeling like I owe him, but I do. He took a bullet to the chest trying to rescue my friends and me from Gore and his cadre of super magicians. The agent’s bulletproof vest stopped the bullet but hadn’t kept him from bonking his head so hard he lost consciousness. That had saved his life, I have no doubt. Bullets and magic had slaughtered every other agent who tried to help me.

What? I snap.

McAllister doesn’t want you going anywhere, but he knows we can’t stop you. He’s giving me permission to drive you over to the site as long as we take Valentina along.

Does she have to come?

Haskell rolls his eyes. This is how we both stay out of trouble. Plus, your camera won’t get any more wet than it already is. Haskell fishes a key fob out of the pocket of his damp sports jacket and dangles it before my face. It’s an electric.

The vehicle being electric convinces me. I don’t think I could stand riding in one of the oversized gas-guzzling SUVs the agents typically drive. Fine. Let’s go.

****

Emergency vehicles with their lights flaring line the street in front of the remains of the Patel house. Half the house is smoldering wreckage being doused with water by firefighters. Haskell pulls up behind a small crowd gathered at the edge of a security cordon.

Stop so I can get out, I say.

Settle down, Haskell says, pointing toward the crowd. I think I see the Patels.

Do you see Haji? My chest erupts with tension. Inside me, the sleeper stirs, eager for release to sate its savage desires. My prosthetics zoom in on the crowd where the agent points. I spot the crying, rain-soaked Mrs. Patel being comforted by her husband, but no sign of my friend. Let me out.

Haskell pulls in behind a police cruiser. I burst from the car, heading for the gathering crowd. Valentina exits the front of the vehicle with an umbrella in hand.

Don’t cause any trouble, the magician calls after me.

Weaving my way through the crowd toward the Patels, I call Dalia.

She picks up on the first ring. Are you there?

Oh, damn, I snarl under my breath as I veer away from the scene toward the road, hoping the entire time the reporters setting up their equipment near the Patels didn’t see me.

What? Dalia asks, voice taut. Are you at his house? Do you see Haji?

One sec. Reporters are staking out the scene. I pull my hood over my damp red mop. There’s no longer a deluge, but it’s sprinkling so I won’t attract attention with the hood up.

Did they see you? Dalia asks.

I glance over my shoulder. The news crew is filming the devastation, and a tall female reporter from Channel 5 speaks to the Patels. Mr. Patel is agitated, telling her she should ask the security people why they can’t see their son.

Thank goodness, I breathe.

What?

I think Haji is alive.

What happened, Allison? Tell me? Dalia says.

I’m not sure. It’s bad. Half the house is in ruins. There’s a fire, but it’s under control. I see Haji’s parents, but I don’t see him.

How do you know he’s alive? Allison—

I’m going to look around. I’ll call you back. I end the call.

I weave my way to the front of the crowd, keeping my head down. A handful of security agents and a squad of national guard troops with long rifles keep the curious and reporters at bay. I move toward the blockade. A security agent in a dark trench coat steps in front of me. From behind me come the voices of agents Haskell and Lopez. I ignore them.

Stop right… The agent’s gaze flicks away from me, then back again. He squints, staring at me hard. Hey, you’re—

You’re going to let me by, aren’t you?

Miss Lee, I can’t. Or—

I give the agent a tight smile. I electrocuted the last person who called me that.

The agent’s mouth drops open. Clearly, he’s not used to dealing with seventeen-year-old females, who can literally bite his head off.

It’s okay. We’ll handle her. Haskell comes between the agent and me. The blast site is off-limits, even for you.

Can we go back to the car? Valentina says from behind me. The rain is starting to pick up.

I sniff the air. Most of what I smell is what I expect. Burned wood with chemical undertones, possibly from the paint or household cleaners consumed in the fire, the ever-present body odor of those around me, and Valentina’s flowery perfume permeate the air. But there is another scent. One I know well—cooked human flesh.

Who burned to death? I demand.

I don’t know, Haskell says.

Who burned to death? I yell at the security around the house.

Off to my left, someone says, Is that Allison Lee?

I glower at Haskell. Let me by, now.

The agent looks ready to concede, but Valentina comes up next to him with the umbrella held over her head. You need to start learning to listen. No means no.

In my peripheral vision, I see a cameraman train his camera on me. The tall reporter from Channel 5 lopes toward me like a predator smelling blood.

Make me. I stride past Valentina. She reaches for me, but Haskell stops her with a shake of his head.

Let her by, Haskell tells the security.

I march across the Patels’ front yard strewn with blackened, smoking debris. The smoke clogs my nostrils and makes my eyes water. The remains of rosebushes caught in the blast crunch beneath my feet. I’m vaguely aware of shouting behind me.

What’s that girl doing?

Stay back. Stay back!

I’m not concentrating on the din surrounding me. Instead, I’m focused on voices and soft crying from behind the ramshackle house. I sniff the air and have my sinuses burned by acrid smoke. Crinkling my nose, I hack, expelling the fumes from my lungs. Still, I catch a whiff of the disturbing aroma of burned human flesh. It’s coming from the backyard near the voices and sobs.

I try to interpret the conversation of the unseen speakers, but the racket of activity is too loud. Ahead of me, firefighters spray down a few hotspots, but as best I can tell, the fire is under control. A firefighter not manning the hose waves and lumbers toward me.

Hey, you can’t be here. The firefighter heads me off and places his hands on his hips, equipment clinking.

I’m forced to a standstill before this large man, made all the more domineering by his bulky gear. If he knew my hide is far more fire-resistant than his coat and pants, he might not be so pushy.

His nostrils flare above a bushy red mustache speckled with gray. The same goes for the two of you. This is an active scene.

I’m well aware the two of you he refers to are agents Haskell and Lopez. Even with all the ambient sounds, I can tell the agents follow about four feet behind me by their footfall and breathing.

Ignoring the firefighter, I imagine my surroundings in a vibrant splash of rainbow colors. My prosthetics switch to IR mode. Much of my vision is distorted by the heat from the extinguishing fire, but I make out five humanoid shapes beyond the building. My heart feels like it will burst from my throat. Two of the figures are on the ground and aren’t moving.

Who’s back there? I demand, blinking until my vision switches from IR back to normal.

You need to…hey, stop!

The firefighter grabs for me as I dart past him, but he is only human, and I am so much more. His hand grasps air. More shouting comes from the other firefighters when I burst through the stream of water from the hose. The blast of H2O knocks me sideways and makes my drenching from the rain seem like a light sprinkle, but I remain on my feet. My pants and shoes are sopping wet, and goose bumps rise on my thighs, but at least my raincoat continues to repel moisture.

I round the house for the backyard, driven to panic with worry at what I will find. If Haji is seriously hurt or…or dead, guilt will suffocate me. He pursued magic to impress me after I broke up with him for discussing my personal, private life with podcast host and bottom feeder ’n chief Devin Montoya, who happens to be Dalia’s ex.

Behind me, Haskell and Valentina deal with the firefighters, a task they are certainly up for since one is a federal agent the size of a small bulldozer and the other a magician. Ahead of me, hidden from the street by the half of the house that wasn’t blown to smithereens, are agents led by none other than Agent-in-charge McAllister. Kneeling over a prone body are two agents. They don’t seem to be doing anything other than observing the victim. Approximately ten feet beyond the first victim is a body covered by a dark trench coat. A sobbing woman sits next to the body.

I break into a run. Where is Haji? Is that him?

No sooner than the words leave my mouth, I see my friend is the first victim and is breathing. Relief slams into me like a murderous rogue wave, washing away pent-up energy and my inhuman prowess. I’m worn to the quick as if I sprinted across the Sahara under the noonday sun during a sandstorm.

When McAllister blocks my path, I’ve already slowed to a walk. I stop before him and use my dwindling reserves to crane my neck to look into his intense gaze. Everything is intense about the Agent-in-charge. He wears a black trench coat for the rain but appears unperturbed at the water beading on and running down his bald, ocher head.

Allison, I’ve been expecting you, McAllister says, voice sharp enough to dice steel.

What’s wrong with Haji? What happened?

I’m not sure. I can speculate, but I won’t. What I do know is this. A Draconic Task Force agent assigned to Mr. Patel is dead. Likely killed in the explosion that destroyed half the house. The surviving magician believes magic use preceded the explosion.

Oh, no, Haji. What happened? What have you done? What is being done for Haji? Is he even conscious? Why isn’t he being taken to a hospital or something?

McAllister gives me a condescending look that oozes oh, really. Mr. Patel is unconscious but otherwise unharmed as far as we can tell.

Unharmed as far as we can tell? I scoff and stride toward my friend.

McAllister raises a long arm, his trench coat unfurling like a batwing, impeding my path. I nearly collide with his arm.

Let me see him. My voice quavers with anger, sweeping away my tiredness and brushing against my abysmal prowess.

Be my guest. He’s no longer my problem, but you, Allison, remain my problem. He drops his arm. Remember that.

I swallow the lump in my throat. What do you mean he’s no longer your problem?

McAllister’s cell phone rings. He retrieves the device from the interior of his trench coat and checks the screen. I have to take this. I’m serious when I say you can see your friend. I won’t stand in your way.

The Agent-in-charge turns away. I’m tempted to listen in on his conversation. There’s a good chance I’ll be able to hear both sides of it, but my bubbling concern for Haji’s immediate wellbeing takes precedence. The agents, two hurly-burly men of indeterminate ages of over thirty but under fifty, stand and move aside as I approach but remain hovering uncomfortably close when I kneel beside my comatose friend.

Haji, I whisper, touching his hand. His skin is insanely warm, like he suffers from a deadly fever, a sure sign of recent magic use. But at least he breathes. As long as he’s alive there is hope. Why can’t you leave magic alone?

Why can’t he be an ordinary, human boy without magic or monstrous abilities? Why can’t he be satisfied with being my friend? This isn’t the first time his taste for magic has gotten him in trouble and resulted in him being in a coma. If it weren’t for him, I never would’ve been held prisoner on Golden Shoal, a tropical island on the edge of Singapore’s territorial waters, and nearly been dissected by a mad scientist.

Conversely, Bria would still be held prisoner on the island, being experimented on against her will, her blood used to turn human magicians into super-powered magic wielders enthralled to the faeries. At least we rescued her. That’s one good outcome from our Singapore misadventure…or is it? Now, as far as I know, the poor faery girl is locked away on Joint Base Lewis-McCord against her will.

I withdraw my hand from Haji’s, ball it into a fist, and punch the damp grass.

Once.

Twice.

Allison. Is something wrong?

I unclench my hand at the sound of the burly agent’s voice.

How long has he been like this? I ask, never taking my gaze from my friend’s dusky face. Since our return from Golden Shoal, I’ve seen Haji a handful of times and then only over video chat. He’s been confined first on base and then at home for his and the public’s safety. Tears moisten my eyes. He looks as gaunt and wan in person as he did on the screen.

Since we found him. Not more than thirty minutes ago. Maybe less.

What’s being done for him? I demand. The last time he was like this, it took an injection of faery blood, a.k.a. the Juice, to revive him. Of course, last time, he was convulsing. He’s not now. Is that good or bad? I gnaw on my lower lip.

McAllister’s handling that, the other agent replies.

I break my gaze from my friend’s countenance, unable to shake the niggling fear that he might stop breathing. The Agent-in-charge is no longer on the phone. He kneels beside the surviving magician, offering hushed words of comfort. The covered corpse draws my attention like a siren’s poison song. My vision momentarily goes out of focus as my prosthetics zoom in like camera lenses on the body. I’m transported to the white corpse hall deep underground on Golden Shoal. Dozens of charred bodies littered the floor, some burned beyond all recognition.

My kills.

My fault.

My vision zooms back to normal, and I turn to Haji. I hope this wasn’t your fault.

Taking a deep breath, I gather my thoughts before pulling out my phone and dialing Dalia. I’m with Haji. He’s alive.

Oh, thank goodness!

I wince at her shrill scream.

Is he okay? Can I talk to him?

I sigh. He’s in a coma or something.

What? Allison…

A rumbling growl of an internal combustion engine comes from behind me. I lower the phone, glancing over my shoulder. Knobbly tires plowing deep grooves into the grass is a four-wheel-drive but otherwise nondescript black van. Overflowing the van’s sides are a white dragon’s translucent body parts. Its serpentine neck rises a good fifteen feet above the van’s roof, flickering in and out of existence. Only I can see the dragon while she rides the slipstream, a highway system interconnecting all the universes in the multiverse. The beast’s wide, pink eyes pin me like a butterfly to a specimen board. All the glimmering draconic body