Chapter Ten
Jimryr lined his Harley up with dozens of other bikes and entered the clubhouse. Twenty-five or so bikers had met him the night he’d arrived in the human realm, of the roughly one hundred DeKalb County Dragons at the time. These were the locals.
Some dragons didn’t want to return to Adrakus, had made lives in the human realm, others didn’t believe they’d help the cause. Even so, over two thousand members stretched coast-to-coast, getting together when possible to spar and prepare to retake their home realm.
Three years. They’d been planning an invasion for three long years.
Did Sakaris intend to return, or had someone killed him, like many other mages, to keep the human and dragon realms separate?
Without Sakaris, there’d be no way home, and no common purpose.
Would these dragons Jimryr had come to think of as family splinter apart, each going their own way?
Zorah had expanded the clubhouse over time. Now at least one hundred dragons in human form filled the room, some playing pool, some absorbed by video games, some lounging in chairs. A few even worked on their bikes in the space, while a dozen or so others stood around giving conflicting advice.
Fen held court on a ratty couch with three of her current lovers, while Zorah stayed behind the bar, cigarette hanging from her lips while handing out beer.
Joe’s bar, even with Griff’s decorative presence, couldn’t compare to the casual atmosphere of this club. Zorah broke into a grin at Jimryr’s approach.
“Dude! You’re back! How’s our number-one recruiter?”
“Still can’t count to ten on my fingers.” He wiggled his gloved hand. “Otherwise, okay, all things considered.”
“Something’s different about you.” Zorah peered closely, then leaned closer still, pulling in a big whiff. “Oh! You got laid!”
“What? You can’t possibly know—” How could she smell anything over the cigarette fumes and three days’ worth of road grime?
“Gotcha!” Zorah laughed. “I didn’t know until now. Who was he? An Atlanta dragon? Was he any good?”
Jimryr so didn’t want to talk about Griff right now, not when memories had dogged his heels every step of the way since they’d met at Joe’s. But if he didn’t offer crumbs of information, Zorah wouldn’t stop asking.
“The lone beta from Alabama.”
Zorah took a long drag of her cigarette, her exhale reminding Jimryr of her dragon form exhaling smoke. “And you didn’t try to recruit him?”
Daire shook his head. “An alpha burned him pretty badly, and he’d taken a hit of claws to the face. I’m not sure he can even fly.”
Zorah winced. “That bad?”
Jimryr nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
Zorah’s face reddened. The cigarette fell to the concrete floor. “What kind of sorry son-of-a-bitch alpha flames a beta?”
“I don’t know. I wish I did.” Seriously wished he did. He didn't know which courts battled that fateful night he entered Terra, or where their loyalties lay. He’d learned a word in the human world that perfectly described the situation: clusterfuck.
“You shoulda brought him to us. We’d accept ’im, regardless.” That was Zorah, always willing to take in another dragon.
“I think he wanted to be left alone.”
Zorah idly wiped the bar while talking. Working off anger? “We can still check in on him from time to time. He’s one of us, whether he wants to be or not.”
Check on him? What a great idea! “I might drop by next time I’m in the neighborhood.”
“You do that. I’ll see to it you’re in the area real soon.” Zorah winked. “What about the Valdosta dragons?”
“One’s too old to shift, one’s too young to fight, and the third takes care of both. So, no new recruits there. How’re things here?”
“Folks are getting antsy. Ready for this big war we’ve been planning. Any idea when the mage might come back?”
“None. I’ve done what he asked. We have his army. The rest is up to him.”
“You know I have no intention of flaming anybody, right? The Goddess commanded alphas not to use their power on betas or omegas.” Maybe Zorah’s anger hadn’t subsided yet.
Jimryr reached over the bar to clap her shoulder, one of the few people he’d touch with his maimed hand. “You’re an honorable dragon, a great alpha, and an outstanding friend.”
Zorah handed over an open beer bottle and opened another for herself. She clinked the bottles together. “I’ll drink to that. Now, I’ve heard tell of some young dragons hanging out in Biloxi.”
“But aren’t we leaving for the camp in a few days?”
Zorah waved off his protests with a flick of her hand—and promptly lit another cigarette. “You’ve got plenty of time. Fen will make your arrangements and email the details.”
Camp. A chance to be a dragon for a few days, spread his wings in more ways than one. Why the sudden desire to bring Griff, the wounded dragon, along?
But until then, if he ever got the nerve to ask, he’d work to do. “Gather round!” Jimryr called. “I found another video for y’all.”
Zorah used a remote to turn on the big screen TV, while Jimryr entered commands on his phone. An old black and white movie appeared.
The dragons gathered around, riveted to the TV. WWII dogfights gave them ideas for fighting maneuvers.
They’d take all the help they could get.
Except possibly a scarred dragon.
The two-bedroom mobile home had seen better days, but the rent came cheap since Zorah owned the place, and a quick stroll down the block took Jimryr to work every morning where he wrangled the motorcycles and occasional car or truck in need of repairs.
Even with second-hand furniture, the trailer came closer to an actual home than he’d had since leaving his court. For a while he’d constantly checked outside for signs of approaching enemies, as circumstances had forced him to do when with Mystral.
Having a place to himself also seemed odd initially, as the unaffiliated dragons had all shared space, with nothing to truly call their own.
Jimryr got himself a beer and collapsed onto the couch Fen gave him when he moved in. He tried hard not to think of the hell she and her lovers had no doubt put the fake leather monstrosity through.
Griff’s small cabin had seemed a mansion compared to the trailer, welcoming and homey, with photos on the walls of people who must mean something to Griff, a bit of reassurance that the scarred dragon wasn’t all alone in the world.
Why Griff’s social situation mattered, Jimryr couldn’t tell, but even the bartender at Joe’s seemed protective of a man twice his size.
Loyal friends were a good sign, but again, why care?
He returned to the kitchen area, pulled the stove away from the wall, and dug into the space he’d made for his hoard.
The crystals caught the light as he spread them on the floor, creating a prism of colors.
Then came his silver or pewter spirit bells.
Which should he choose for his bike to replace the one he’d given Griff?
Crystals and bells. What a big difference from the precious stones he’d collected since a young age.
He’d hidden his family’s hoard in a cave back home. No telling if anything remained. But he had his crystals. Nothing expensive, simply valuable enough to soothe his dragon’s need to collect shiny things.
His dragon purred within him at the sight.
The prize of his collection came from Georgia, acquired early in his time with the DeKalb County Dragons, a multifaceted garnet Jimryr had found himself while hiking.
He held the gem to the light, admiring the beauty. What would Griff think of the garnet? What did Griff hoard, and again, why the hell did Jimryr care?
Sitting in the middle of his treasures, he reached into the wall again, withdrawing a notebook and pen. The planes of Griff’s face remained clear in Jimryr’s memory, from the way his scars caused his mouth to hitch on one side to the way his eyes glittered in the low light of the cabin.
One by one, Jimryr committed his feelings about the man to poetry, from their meeting to their parting. Protective. He’d felt protective, but also protected.
His one night with Griff made him feel things, as though a part of him long dormant had returned to life. Why, he couldn’t say. He’d likely never see the man again.
But he wanted to.
So did his dragon.