Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
brIANNA
M y father’s usual hustling and bustling entrance snaps me out of my book. He’s barking orders at the steward, his personal assistant, and the chef. He’s complaining about anything that and everything to keep “the help” in their place. He’s a tyrant who loves to demean people when they don’t meet his unreachable standards of perfection.
I am the least perfect in this house and take the brunt of his wrath.
And if he’s back, that means they’re back too.
I stare at the page, trying to pick up where I got interrupted, but it’s no use. With the knowledge that my father’s home, I can’t help but wonder who survived and came back. Did any of them? Is that why he’s in such a bad mood? Did they lose?
The world exploded in panic and awe when a dragon shifter swooped into a live morning show in New York City. Conversations, tabloids, news reports, social media all blew up with the revelation that dragons were real. Not just dragons, but dragon shifters. I don’t know how many times I watched a man dive off a building and shift into an amazing dragon in the stretch of only a few seconds. It was incredible and unbelievable.
Then the reveal there are other creatures out there with different abilities, different shifters, other magic, and whatever else drew humans to the long historic tradition of gathering pitchforks and torches to storm the castle and kill the monster.
I, however, had already gone through the five stages of dealing with the fact the supernatural is real when I learned what he’s keeping in the basement. Or should I say dungeon? Seems more fitting when there’s a dragon.
Of course, when the morning show blew up the world, I had to act shocked and scared. An Oscar winning performance if I do say so myself.
My father’s obsession with capturing, caging, and controlling the supernatural has been going on for a few years, before the rest of the world found out. I don’t know how he learned about them before everyone else, but he’s a politician, and they always seem to know about all the seedy underground highly immoral things that are happening. It brought him to the doorstep of the equivalent dog and cock fights, only he’s controlling magical creatures, which no doubt gives his narcissistic bulging ego a good stroke.
I would give anything to get out of this house, away from his tyranny and his control over me. Something, I’m sure the poor shifters in the dungeon relate to since they’re magically bound to him and his desires, while I give my father the fake sense of security that he has me under his control. I move to the window seat where I can overlook the long drive to our house, watching with bated breath as black cars pull in.
The custom trucks, made with magic and steel to haul creatures that could only be pulled out of fiction, lumber around the circle drive to the path that goes alongside the house, disappearing into the underground garage. The shifters have returned. Not that I’m supposed to know what’s in there. He likes to think I’m na?ve and innocent. Or more likely, dumb and gullible.
Little does my father know or understand being his daughter means I know a lot more, because ignorance isn’t bliss. I’ve been caught unaware plenty of times in my life. Not anymore. Never again if I can help it.
A few years ago, my father was raging at his then head of his security while my brother just stood by his side smirking, amused that someone else was getting berated no doubt. I heard words I know I wasn’t supposed to hear and I certainly didn’t understand them at the time. Dragons, shifters, wolves, magic, cuffs, fights. None of it made sense at the time. Slowly and carefully, I began to spy on my father and my brother, trying to fit the pieces together. The words were too terrifying to be true. A dragon? It had to be code or something. Whatever it was, I knew that I wouldn’t like it, and it would make me even angrier at my father than I was most days.
Eventually, I watched enough to get the code to the keypad leading down to the basement. From the basement, I found another door that was only locked. A few internet videos later and I had enough theoretical lock picking skills to make most thieves jealous. It took me a few days and lots and lots and lots of tries, but finally, it clicked. The stairs led to a space below the underground garage that I didn’t know existed. It looked like it belonged in another time, in another world. Runes were carved around the doorways, windows, and bigger ones on the ceiling and floor. There was a hallway of six doors.
I’ve snuck down there a few times when I knew my father was out and the trucks were gone. Those doors were open. Prison cells, I realized quickly. Slabs of cement for beds, scratches on the wall like they tried to claw their way out, and evidence of blood.
I began to think my father was keeping human prisoners at first. It took a lot more investigation and one fateful night when I realized the truth.
I watched out the windows like I often do when I know my father is returning from one of his underground ventures. The back of the truck rocked so hard it nearly tipped over. I plastered myself to the window and gaped as a bright blue and black dragon split the truck in half. Its wings were tattered and shredded like a sail brutalized in a storm. The creature tried for the sky anyway, but it appeared too weak, too beaten. The slashes in its body seemed especially grotesque from the glow of the lampposts. It wasn’t much light and for a long time I wondered if I’d dreamed it all.
The magnificent dragon fell as my father’s security crew shocked it with so many electric prods, it looked like a miniature lightning storm in my front yard. The creature’s size diminished so quickly I blinked rapidly and then there was a naked woman left in the wake of the dragon. Her cool umber skin carried the same slashes on her body as the dragon did. Her black curls mangled together with dried blood. She kept trying to escape, but my father’s security was relentless and shocked her until she stopped moving.
They picked up her limp body, tossed her into the other truck and went about getting them back underground and then taking care of the demolished truck. My father had a new truck by the next weekend, and it was like nothing happened.
It was then and there I realized how truly awful my father was and what he was capable of, and it made me sick. I was a prisoner, but not like they were.
At one point, my father had six shifters in the dungeon. I believe I’ve seen fifteen come and go, just by peeking into their cells and never seeing them again. I imagine they’re dead. The wounds on the woman-slash-dragon I’d seen weren’t something she got casually. I’ve tried talking to the shifters in the basement, in their cells a few times, but none of them have ever been interested in talking to me. But I keep trying. I wanted to do something to help, anything to bring some sort of comfort, if at all possible.
Not that it mattered, in the end. They all came through, and they all disappeared eventually, looking worse and worse before their end.
For a few months, the dungeon was empty, no prisoners wasting away in those cells. I had hoped he’d gotten bored and decided to close shop.
No such luck.
My father bought three shifters in an auction.
I’d managed to put the information together after more spying. Three kidnapped men who have less freedom than I do.
It’s not as though anyone will discover my father’s extracurricular activities. And even if they do, he has diplomatic immunity and I’m pretty sure he has more than enough dirt on the politicians in this town to keep himself out of hot water. He prides himself on being an ambassador of Jamitari, a small island country in Bering Sea that no one really knows much about, at least in the United States.
My father considers me a commodity. He thinks he’s going to marry me off and expects a dowry in return and an arrangement to get him more power and prestige. No matter what he has planned, it won’t bode well for me.
It doesn’t matter that I am accomplished in my own right, fluent in six languages, the highest GPA in my school, extra curriculars, volunteering, and virtual tutoring. But to him, I’ll always be less, because I wasn’t born a son.
My brother, Zimo, is being groomed to take over my father’s businesses, including the underground, illegal ones. He travels with them, dressed in tactical gear covered in shimmering runes. He’s learning to control them, to keep them captured, to keep them under thumb.
Predictably, as soon as the trucks disappear, my father struts into the library with a look of disdain smeared across his face, no doubt looking for reasons to punish me for existing. “Nose in a novel. Not even a classic.” He all but rolls his eyes with his tone flaring with derision. “Brianna, what man is going to want a woman with her face buried in some fantasy world?” He goes to the bookshelves and pulls out a nearly pristine copy of an etiquette manual. “You should be working on managing a household. That’s the best way to bring value to yourself.”
What he means by managing a household is doing as women are meant to do. Get pregnant, clean, cook, and also manage any staff to make sure everything is pristine and perfect. Only, his staff won’t answer to me. He doesn’t like the way I cook, clean, or even study.
I keep the charade that I’m reading just to piss him off, because I can never win against him so I take what little rebellious moments I can and enjoy them.
“Brianna,” he snaps.
I sigh audibly and slowly lower my book enough to look over the pages at him. “Yes?”
“Do not think you are too old for me to use the belt on your wide ass.” His tone is cold and angry.
I should not egg him on further. He’s done worse. “Yes, sir.” It’s difficult to keep my tone polite and neutral, but I manage with all my years of practice.
“I’ve got meetings first thing in the morning. I’m going to go celebrate my win tonight and then go to bed. Do something to better yourself tomorrow.” He turns and leaves without another word.
I wait until I can’t hear him any longer and sneak out of the library.
I don’t know where they go when they leave the embassy compound, but I do know that there’s always a chance one of the shifters won’t return.
Pressing my back against the wall at the top of the stairs, I wait for Zimo’s voice to filter up to me.
“The bear will need time to heal. He nearly lost his leg this time. And the wolf burned his feet so badly the skin peeled off, since he decided it would be fun to not leave the holding cell. Fucking idiot.”
There’s a tsking sound. “Then motivate them, my son. You’re supposed to be managing them. If you can’t handle it, then I’ll find someone else who will do what needs to be done. I don’t need updates on their injuries. I don’t much care. I just want the numbers for our wins.”
“Yes, father.”
“They are abominations against nature, and if we have to suffer them to live, then we should at least get our money’s worth.” My father’s voice is full of irritation, which doesn’t bode well for the shifters. “What of the dragon? They said it was a ‘prince’. The fact that these monsters pretend to be royalty is laughable. It’s like watching a monkey wearing a suit.”
I consider his words as I listen. A prince? Dragon shifters have royalty? That sounds more civilized than barbaric.
“The dragon’s getting faster at taking out the competition. We need to find him stronger opponents, if we’re going to keep taking him out this often. He killed the tiger in under five minutes.” Zimo almost sounds impressed. “It doesn’t make for an interesting night if the fights are over so short. The audience hardly has time to finish one drink, let alone pour more money into their gambling on who will win.”
I can hear all my father’s frustration and annoyance in one long sigh. “Figure it out. Maybe we need to send it in there wounded to make it more of an even fight. The audience wants a good battle. Bloodshed. These beasts are good for only one thing, and if it’s not drawing crowds and entertaining them while they shell out loads of money, then we’ll kill it and invest in a monster that can get the job done.”
I hear my father’s familiar heavy footfalls on the stairs, and I slip quietly into my bedroom.
I close my door and go to my desk, intent on looking as though I’m studying, even though my mind keeps wandering back to the creatures in our basement.
I have so many questions, so many things I can’t even begin to wrap my mind around, and all I want to do is find answers.
“Brianna?” A soft knock raps against my door, but unsurprisingly he enters without waiting for an answer.
I place my pen down over my textbook. “Yes, Papa?” I give him as innocent a smile as I can muster, even though I’m nearly bursting at the seams with the need to learn more. But I won’t ask him. I’ll never get the truth, and I know he’ll be pissed if he knows I know anything about them.
“It’s getting late. Go to bed.” He gives me a tight nod, the closest to a warm expression as he’s ever given me. “I wouldn’t want you falling asleep in your classes and bringing shame on you or me.”
It’s the same sort of talk he’s given me every school night of my life, concern for the image I project in my classes—smart, but never smarter than the male students, concern for how I look to the rest of the world, but never concern for me.
“Yes, Papa. I was just finishing my studies for the night.”
He nods. “Very good. Good night, Brianna.”
I almost wish he’d give me a hug, any sort of actual affection or really any sign that he cares for me at all, other than as yet another asset he has to keep under his thumb.
Sometimes, I fantasize about running away, about finding some new corner of the world I’ve never seen, somewhere I could be my own person. But that would mean somehow evading the guards that constantly patrol the embassy compound, including right outside our home, the “classmates” who are clearly paid spies for my father, and the so-called friends who I know only talk to me because it’s fiscally and socially beneficial to them.
I may have the latest fashions, the best of everything, but I’m far from cool or desirable outside of my family name and stature.
If anything, I’m awkward and nearly a leper with the way my real classmates look at me. I probably don’t help any of that as I don’t trust anyone. My father’s reach is farther than I can imagine, and if he catches me doing something he won’t approve of, it’ll mean I suffer even more.
I wait at my door, listen as my father’s footsteps disappear down the hall, and then the clear slam of the door as he moves into his own bedroom. Very little will pull him from that room before his alarm goes off promptly at five a.m., and I’m counting on that. He regiments his own schedule almost as stringently as he does mine.
Which means that as soon as I can confirm my brother’s followed in my father’s footsteps and taken himself to bed, and the staff will be tucked away in their wing until early morning, I have free rein of the house.
Usually, I head straight for the library, to pick through the rare books and to curl up in an armchair to read about things that my father wouldn’t approve of, or I find my way to the den and turn the TV on low, so that I get even a glimpse of what’s actually going on in the world, not just the little bits my father and brother determine I might need to know.
But tonight, I’ve made up my mind, and I don’t think anything will stop me from my goal.
I want to meet the shifters.
Carefully, I tiptoe down the stairs, watching for the spots I know creak under foot, and I peek around each corner slowly, watching the shadows, for any sign that someone else is here.
Just like every night, it’s quiet, dimly lit, and I’m completely alone.
The door to the basement is locked. The changes often, but I finally got the last number yesterday. I think I have it now. My hand is trembling as I gently push each button carefully and then I hit enter.
When the light turns green and the click of the lock releases, I let out a sigh of relief. I open the door. No creaks. No squeaks. My father makes sure the house staff keep all the hinges well oiled. Behind the door is nothing but the top couple of stairs leading down and darkness.
I pause, listening for any sign of movement, any sign that I’m about to get caught, but it’s still eerily silent below and above.
Almost like it’s all a dream, and I’ll get down there and see a bunch of expensive cars or something. Like I’ve made up this whole fantasy of shifters, so that I’m not alone in my prison.
But they’re down there, I know they are, they must be. I’ve watched those trucks for weeks, coming and going. I’ve listened to my family’s hushed conversations about the creatures. The news doesn’t talk about it, the journalists probably don’t even know, but people like my father are capturing these creatures, these…people, holding them hostage, making them fight and goodness knows what else. Humans don’t have a good track record when it comes to treating those that are different well, not to mention all the horrific things humans have done to other humans with trafficking and abuse. Even the dark secrets of humanity’s past are rarely spoken about, people trying to cover up the truth with lies and distractions. I can only imagine what secrets are hidden beneath the world of the supernatural.
The cement steps are clean, each scuff of my foot on the stairs seems to echo and bounce along the cement walls down into the darkness.
The basement looks like any other, I suppose. Shelves with boxes storing miscellaneous items for the house, washer and dryer facilities. It’s expansive of the most of first floor. It’s open with a few rooms that are more storage and other items for the staff to keep the house up to my father’s standards. The floors are done with a grey linoleum. It’s a clean space, maintained by the staff well. Not spooky like some of the basements I’ve seen in movies or television.
I carefully move through the space to the door in the corner. It’s made to blend into the space and not look like it goes anywhere particularly interesting.
There’s no keypad, just a simple lock. My father’s cockiness comes through loud and clear. No one would dare disturb this door without his permission.
With my rusty skills of picking locks, I manage to get it open in about five minutes. As soon as I open the door, I want to turn away, just from the smell coming from the basement. It’s more potent than any farm I’ve ever been to, and even worse than the time I had to meet with a gym teacher who kept his office in the boys’ locker room. It’s worse than it’s ever been.
Maybe this is a bad idea.
Shaking my head, I take a deep breath in through my mouth and take a few tentative steps forward, bracing myself for what’s to come. I take each step slowly, as I’m descending into darkness once again. I don’t want to turn on lights just in case, but I have my phone out, just the screen light leading the way through the shadows.
The doorway at the bottom of the stairs is open like always. The space hasn’t changed much. It’s still dingy and not well cared for. The wear and tear of having shifters down here is more extensive than the last time I saw it. I take another step forward, cautious as I listen for one of my father’s security guards, but there’s nothing.
I’m always surprised by my father’s insane security, but he also must have a lot of faith in the magic he harnesses here, because there’s never a guard around watching this area unless they’re moving them to and from the trucks.
“Just go away.” A deep, rumbling voice comes from ahead of me and to the right. It doesn’t sound threatening or fearful. Just a monotone, almost bored sounding voice.
Following it, I walk deeper into the dark. Without warning, a light flicks on above me, and then two more in quick succession further down the hall, like I tripped a sensor. That’s new.
I hope it’s not a sensor or alarm that sends any sort of alert to my father. He’d likely lock me up and throw away the key if he knew I was down here. Or worse, he’d arrange for me to be married off to a horrid man. Though, that’s probably his plan anyway.
“Hello?” I call out tentatively, not wanting to frighten whoever spoke.
“I told you to go away.” A sniffing sound seems to echo around the space, and then he says softly, “Sending a girl in is a new one.”
“A woman.” I don’t know why that’s my retort, or why my voice didn’t give away my gender more than my scent did, but I keep moving forward. “My name is Brianna. What’s yours?”
“I have no name anymore. Isn’t that what you people want from me? To be nothing more than a monster? A beast who kills for your idea of sport?” His anger and annoyance come through clearly.
The door in front of me is nothing but a normal house door aside from the runes carved into it and written around the frame and the sliding window that is high enough I’ve usually had to find something to stand on to look inside. I must’ve grown a little since the last time I was down here. It doesn’t seem so high anymore.
“I’m not one of your captors. I…” I sigh trying to find the right words. “I’m as much a prisoner here as you are.”
He lets out a humorless laugh. “You’re human. No one would dare imprison you and force you to commit the atrocities they’ve forced me to.”
He’s probably right. No one would put me in a ring to fight someone else, but I also wouldn’t be good at fighting someone. “I suppose you’re right. I am a prisoner here, but I’m not forced do horrible things.”
He snorts but doesn’t say anything else.
“Please, tell me your name. Tell me something,” I plead quietly.
“I’m dragon. That’s all any of you want to know.”
“His name’s Declan.” Another gruff voice comes from further down the hall behind another door, but this one has an accent. Scottish, maybe? It’s hard for me to place with only a few words.
“Declan.” I smile softly. “And you’re a dragon. Amazing.”
He lets out another snort of annoyance. “What do you want, girl? Have you come to trick me, to make me believe that perhaps not all humans here are evil, just to torture me more? You can’t give me hope. I do what you demand, don’t pretend I’m anything more than what you’ve made me.”
With a frown, I run my fingers over the surface of the door. My fingers tighten around the door handle. I give it a gentle turn, not really expecting anything.
But… it turns.
With a gentle tug, the door opens easily.
Just on the other side stands the tallest, broadest man I’ve ever seen in real life.
He’s at least six and a half, maybe close to seven feet tall, and his bare chest and arms are all muscle.
He takes an aggressive step towards me. “Get out.” His teeth are bared and his voice is a rumbling, gruff growl probably meant to intimidate me.
I take a step closer, tilting my head in curiosity, ignoring his attempt to scare me. “Why do you stay, if the door’s unlocked?” Somehow, I doubt my father would let them be free if they were a danger. I’m guessing the runes and magic here do more than keep them prisoners.
He snarls. “You think a door could keep me here? It’s spelled. Only humans can pass through.” He holds up his wrists. “And even if I could leave, how do you think I’d get back to my clan witch to get these damned cuffs off?” He turns around abruptly. “How do you think I’d get her to remove the branded runes decorating my back?”
I gasp at the sight of the etchings burned into his skin. Brands, like a farmer brands his cattle. But I suspect these do more than just mark him as “owned”.
I shake my head, struggling to believe that my father and brother could be this cruel. I’m not naive enough to believe they aren’t cruel at all, but this is beyond the pale. To leave a mark on someone’s body like that, to burn it or carve it into them like they’re nothing but cattle. And I don’t even like that they do it to cattle, frankly.
Tears sting my eyes, and I find myself reaching toward him.
He turns out of my reach until he’s glaring down at me with such hate. “Have you seen enough yet, little princess? Or should I show you more of what your kind has done to me?”