Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Finally, the shift runner stomps towards me, chewing gum. Oh fate, it’s one of those days. “What do you want”—chomp, chomp—“till six?” She says the words without taking a breath of air or looking at me, and gum almost falls out of her mouth as she grins at the banana thrower.
I show her the eels. “Can we have a replacement please?”
“Sure, I’ll be one second.” She holds up a single finger.
The runner will not, in fact, be a second. “Could you take—” I attempt to get her to take the damaged, stinking package away, but she’s off on a slow slog reminiscent of a snail crossing the store.
My cheeks hurt with smiling at the growing line of sighing and fidgeting customers, and I continue scanning Sweet Eater’s shopping until we are all politely waiting for the replacement grossness to return. This entire interaction is going to ruin my average rate for sure.
Inwardly, I want to cry. I’m nineteen. I should be going out with my friends on a Friday night. It would be so lovely. Instead, I’ll be stuck here forever, working.
I drum my fingers on the edge of the built-in aluminium scales. I guess it’s my own damn fault. Naturally, I’m not a follower. I’m contrary like that, and I’ve never mindlessly followed the rules, making me unpopular.
Really unpopular.
I’m not the most pleasant person to be around at the best of times.
My mum has told me hundreds of times that I’m too honest for my own good and don’t understand which thoughts should be kept to myself and which should be let out.
So now I keep my mouth shut. All the questions I have kind of bounce around in my head and come out in other ways.
Magical ways.
When I was a kid, I questioned everything. I asked a lot of questions. I wouldn’t shut up, and my curiosity and blatant naivety about how the world worked put a black mark on my name.
I got tagged as a problem.
They told everyone at school, including my friends, that I had mental difficulties, and they dragged me through psychological testing, which I failed dismally.
That’s why my job allocation is retail.
I can’t be trusted to do anything else.
Put the troublemaker on sixteen-hour shifts stacking shelves, let her deal with angry customers six days a week, and see the life sucked out of her. She won’t be asking questions anymore, mwahahah.
Well, stacking shelves has made me fit, and there’s something kind of relaxing about facing all the labels the same way. It’s satisfying to fill an empty shelf, so screw them. I like people.
Most people.
Sweet Eater eyes my name badge. Karen, she mouths passive-aggressively as if to motivate me to move faster.
I want to throw my arms in the air and yell, “Look, lady, I can’t make the runner move any quicker!” But I don’t.
She isn’t trying to remember my name ’cause of my sparkling personality. When she gets home, Sweet Eater will fire up her computer and go to the store’s review site to moan about my poor customer service.
Meh, she’s entitled to her opinion. But more fool her. My official name badge is still attached to yesterday’s garish green polo shirt and currently sitting at the bottom of the washing machine, all nice and clean.
I wince. Sorry, Karen.
If Sweet Eater does complain, I’ll own up and take the hit.
Stupid name badge.
I hate it here. Not just the supermarket but here. This town. This supernatural community of around five thousand living in what I not so affectionately call the glass prison—though it’s not made of glass.
No, it’s a massive, immovable, powerful wall of a ward that stretches around and over the town’s nine-mile circumference.
I once asked my dad why no one thought having a vast warded circle in the middle of England was strange. He shrugged and said, “Kricket, people believe what they’re told.”
The circulating consensus back then was that a spell had gone wrong and they had to evacuate the town and block it off.
Trapped.
We are all trapped here.
Others say we’re protected. Safe. But what is safety when you can’t see anything beyond your cage? Besides. It’s not that protected.
Everyone—or almost everyone—in town has dragon blood.
Cool, huh? Dragons.
Some say dragons evolved to be able to turn into human form and not vice versa. Some state these human-shaped dragons are ten feet tall and must have specially made clothing. That they’re beautiful. But dragons, real dragons, are rare. I’ve never seen one, and I don’t want to see one.
No, thanks. I’m tiny, squishy, and crunchy.
This town is full of the lost and the stolen. A mix of creatures, entire families grabbed in raids to snap up all people with the correct DNA.
Anyone with the blood of dragons.
We came here when I was six and my twin brothers were babies. Mum had a complicated birth, and Aleric, the youngest twin, had a medical issue that resulted in them taking a DNA sample. Within days, our entire family was uprooted and relocated here.
We’ve been squirrelled away here for the past thirteen years, nice and safe. It’s not just English people either. People from all over the world were ripped away from their lives and dumped in this town—to rot.
Oh, I’m sorry. Even in my thoughts, I must get it right. The propaganda script is that we are to be kept safe and protected, along with our unique alienesque blood.
Shady as fuck if you ask me.
No one asks me.
I don’t enjoy being in a cage, in a town I can’t escape. I find it strange that some long-dead relative of mine bonked a dragon and consequently we’re stuck here.
I wish I weren’t trapped. We get heavily censored real-world television, so I know it’s more challenging outside than here.
The real world is dangerous: vampires, demons, the fae, and all manner of scary creatures roam outside the ward, living their lives and killing each other. Still, I’d love to see it all.
I continue with my nervous tapping and sympathetic queue smiling. “Not long now,” I say brightly.
It feels like forever until the gum-chewing runner returns with the packet of jellied eels. She shoves them at me and then hurries away, leaving me with the bag of funk that I slide under the till. I’ll have a break soon and will throw it into the damaged-item area myself.
I keep eye contact with the sweet eater as I scan the new eel packet barcode, give her another smile, and tell her the total.
She pays with her card.
“Thank you for shopping with us. Have a lovely evening.” I hand over the receipt, and the fake smile slips as the seconds tick and she doesn’t move.
Come on, lady, please move.
Sweet Eater meticulously checks the receipt.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the duty manager making her way down the row of tills. Her eyes are fixed on me.
Uh-oh.
I clear my throat and ensure my voice is extra monotone, without a shred of irritation or panic.
“Excuse me, um, there’s a line of people waiting behind you.
Would you please step aside? If there’s a mistake with your order, the customer service desk will be happy to rectify it.
” I point helpfully to the customer service desk and the employee staring into space while biting her nails.
Please leave. Please, please, please.
Sweet Eater lowers the receipt and lifts her chin. “I’m going to report you, Karen.” She spits out the name, huffs, snatches hold of her trolley, and—
Outside, a loud boom! makes the entire store shake.