There's No Crying Over Spilled Dragon Blood

“There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.”

We rolled our eyes as the van came to an abrupt stop, jolting everyone halfway out of our seats. Duffy always said the same thing when we arrived on the scene for cleanup duty. Lately, that was practically every other day, so everyone was heartily sick of it, anticipating what came next. I glanced at the rearview mirror and saw Stephen from his place at the front passenger seat, a small, sardonic smile lifting one side of his mouth.

“Used to be, we could enjoy walking outside any time of the day or night. That’s why we live in a city, amiright? Especially this one. You got the best of all possible worlds. You want high-rise canyons? Head downtown. Fields to run around in and watch kids fly their kites? There’s the park. Want to work on your tan and tune out to the sound of rolling waves? Head south to the beach. Short bus ride and you can hike in the woods. But that’s all just memory now. Because now, we got dragons.”

I used the back of my hand to stifle my laughter as Stephen lip-synced Duffy’s entire tirade word for word. Duffy seemed too busy pulling on the sleeves of his coveralls to notice. Expectant silence filled the air as we waited for Duffy to either continue his rant or give us an order. His head snapped up, as if smelling the tense, humid atmosphere in the van.

“What the heck are you all waiting for? Get out and suit up!” he barked.

The crew sprang into action, the back doors of the van opening to let in the murky light outside. I squinted as I followed the others onto the street, not only from the glare of the overcast sky but the thick dust that hung in the air.

“Quick, put your gear on before you inhale too much of this crap,” Stephen said, grabbing the yellow plastic suits and checking the name badges before he thrust them in the general direction of their owners.

I reluctantly zipped up my coveralls as I waited for Stephen to find my suit. I could feel the sweat prickling just underneath my skin, only to be suppressed by an errant cool breeze. The weather had been the same for days: gray and threatening storms, with patches of azure sky appearing for brief moments before enveloping everything back in shadow; unseasonably muggy, with gales that whipped leaves off the trees.

“I hate to say it, but it feels like earthquake weather,” Stephen whispered yesterday as we stared out the dormitory's common room window, watching anvil-shaped clouds form above the hills and people on the street try to shield themselves from unexpected gusts of wind. He immediately rapped his knuckles on the window frame. I crossed myself for good measure. It had been over a decade since the last big one but, if you lived in the city long enough, you learned to recognize the signs. I thought it was just the increasing frequency of attacks that had everyone on edge. Hear enough sirens wail through the city at random times of the day and night, making you jump up and drag yourself and your family to any of the bunkers hidden throughout the city, and you started to watch each minute and hour tick by, just waiting for the next one. It was a miracle the city hadn’t exploded into complete chaos. Two fights erupted in the dorm this week as people’s frayed nerves sought an outlet. Slammed doors and muffled arguments accompanied the ever-unsettling roars and hisses of dragons nesting just beyond the northern ridge. They drowned out even the loud, plaintive groans of the foghorns that used to lull me to sleep.

Yet, here we were, the city’s designated dragon guts cleanup crew (officially and ironically known as the DRAG: Draconic Recovery and Analysis Group)—sleep-deprived, cranky, and over-caffeinated, but ready to literally bleed the sucker dry.

“Hira.”

My head whipped around at the sound of Stephen’s voice. He held my battered hazmat suit, scratched and taped over in so many parts.

“I think you might wanna retire this one after today,” he said, dropping the slippery vinyl fabric onto my outstretched arms. “I can sign your requisition form when we get back.” He jerked his chin at me. “Put it on. I’ll check for any new holes and patch them up.”

I nodded and stepped into the suit, immediately dreading the added warmth and moisture it would create. I was placing the large plastic visor over my head when I heard an “Ow!”

I looked up and Stephen was rubbing the back of his head. Duffy, fully outfitted, stood behind him, his face rosy behind the plexiglass. From heat or pure irritation, it was hard to tell.

“What was that for?” Stephen said, frowning.

“Being a damned idiot,” Duffy replied. “Don’t think I didn’t see you mimicking me in the van.”

Stephen’s expression held not one trace of remorse. “You say the same damn thing every time, old man. You know that, right?”

“Need to,” Duffy retorted, “because you kids never listen.”

I stepped closer to Stephen, not wanting this to escalate any further. Stephen could be an incredible ass when pushed. “Hey, tape me up, will you?”

Stephen spared Duffy one last look before turning to me, a roll of tape dangling like an oversize bangle from his left wrist. He gave me an apologetic smile as Duffy stomped off. Stephen knew I hated conflict of any kind. He put his hands on my shoulders and gently turned me around, fingers firmly running across the suit fabric to find any rips or holes, just like he’d done more than a hundred times before. Despite popular belief, dragon blood wasn’t acidic or corrosive. It was hot. When handled improperly, it could cause severe burns or wounds that never healed. Hence the hazmat suits and coveralls, the duct tape and work boots. Direct contact with dragon blood was to be avoided as much as possible. Everyone at DRAG had seen enough glimpses of Duffy’s striated, puckered arms and hands to heed that warning. I heard the harsh tearing of tape as Stephen used his teeth to make a strip of tape, spreading it flat across a spot near my lower back. He felt down to my ankles then circled me and scanned up the front until he was standing just a few inches from me. He looked up and gave me the thumbs-up sign.

“Head over to the body. I’ll be right behind you,” he said before turning around and fishing in the van for his own suit.

I wanted to ask whether he needed someone to make sure his suit was airtight, but he was already bent over it, hair falling over his forehead as he concentrated on finding even the tiniest gap in the fabric.

Pulling a pair of gloves from a box someone had thoughtfully placed on the hood of the van, I wriggled my fingers and pressed the black latex firmly around each digit. Nothing made sloppier work than ill-fitting gloves, and retrieving dragon blood required steady hands.

As I walked towards the flashing red-and-blues, curious bystanders that were pressing closer towards the scene saw my yellow ensemble, the interior of my visor already foggy, and stepped back to let me through. I could feel their curiosity, wondering what kind of person decides to do this for a living. It didn’t bother me as much as it used to. I had a roof over my head, three square meals a day, unlimited snacks, and a family of sorts. I passed the masked policemen guarding the inner perimeter, barely giving them a small nod of acknowledgement as I saw the steaming heap of scaled flesh not fifty yards away.

The aroma of dragon blood, warm and sweet and seductive, seeped through the layers of protection I had on. This was the other reason you needed to be in full personal protective equipment when handling dragon carcasses. Like a spark to kindling, the smell of fresh dragon blood was enough to inflame even the most dispassionate human. And the sight of it, like liquefied amber, was just as hypnotic.

I didn’t realize I’d closed my eyes, savoring the scent for just a moment, until a sudden roar of raucous laughter jolted me out of my trance.

Seated atop a pile of rubble, still in their black battle armor, were the Draconian Seven. The city seal was stamped onto their metal chest plates, right over their hearts, though some were so scratched and seared you could barely make out the tower and ancient words. As the SWAT team specially trained to ground and kill attacking dragons, they enjoyed near-celebrity status. So if they wanted to break protocol and remove their helmets, get high on the seductive scent of the blood they’d just spilled all over Fiftieth Street, and pass around a large flask of something sure to get them even more messed up, no one wanted to tell them otherwise. Even the medics just stood idly by as they watched the Seven celebrate their latest kill, not wanting to intrude on the celebration. Or maybe they just wanted to gawk at the display of painfully attractive, arrogant warriors. Even I had to admit it was almost as enticing as the splattered blood on their armor, shimmering in the hazy light.

The main source of mirth was the Seven’s second in command. Josiah Comus could only be described as too much. An abundance of warm blonde hair that managed to form a permanent halo around his head, even as parts of it were matted down from sweating under his helmet, the rest falling over his absinthe green eyes. Too tall, standing head and shoulders above the rest of the group, his armor only adding to his already considerable bulk. The man could never seem to keep still, always gesturing wildly with his arms or fiddling with some weapon or other. I swore I could hear one of the medics sigh loudly as Josiah said something that made the rest nearly double with hilarity. All except for Tristan.

If Josiah emitted big golden retriever energy, Tristan was the black hole that absorbed and tempered some of his brother-in-arm’s high spirits. Josiah resembled the marble statues that lined the steps up to the Capitol, ready to turn on you with brute force, but Tristan Velez had the lithe, quiet grace of the El Greco paintings I had seen in the art museum. The sides of his head were shaved close to his scalp, the short hair at the top of his head ending in tight curls. Where Josiah's eyes were bright, Tristan's were the same storm gray of the sky above us. Josiah took up all the space and oxygen in a room; Tristan was tightly self-contained. He sat slightly apart from the rest of the group, cleaning his longsword with a piece of cloth. Without looking up, he said something that made Josiah slap a palm over his heart, as if he’d been shot. A ghost of a grin tugged the edges of Tristan’s mouth before disappearing.

“Better scrape your jaw off the ground before Duffy sees you,” a rough voice said in my comms. I started, then turned to see Stephen standing behind me, holding two large glass syringes in his hands.

“Pfft,” I said, embarrassed that he thought I’d been ogling them. “Nothing to see. You know Kill Boys aren’t my type.”

Stephen laughed, and I couldn’t detect any hints of jealousy or irritation in it. “No need to spare my feelings, Hira.” He inclined his head towards the boisterous crew. “They’re pretty much everyone’s type.”

I followed his gaze and saw the two female members of the group, Karin and Lysandra Darrow, checking their sidearms, grinning at Josiah’s hijinks. So close in build and coloring, the cousins were often mistaken for twins. But, if anyone decided to judge them on their petite stature alone, they usually found themselves laying on the ground, a weeping, broken mess.

“When are you finally going to make a move,” I said, gingerly taking a syringe from him, taking care not to disturb the near-invisible glass needle. To maintain its purity, dragon blood could only be held in glass. “Grinning at Kill Girls from behind your visor doesn’t count as flirting.”

Stephen only shook his head in amusement before sauntering towards the carcass. I chuckled and made to follow him, when a booming voice bellowed, “Hey, Drag Girl, careful you don’t stab yourself with that thing!”

Already rattled from when Stephen snuck up on me, the force of Josiah’s taunting voice made me catch my toes on my other foot. In an effort to regain my balance, I overcompensated and fell flat on my ass.

Everything seemed to stop. Even the Seven paused whatever they were doing to look my way. I found I couldn’t move for a moment, stunned by the suddenness of my fall. I took a moment to remind myself to breathe, then ran a quick check from head to toe to assess for injuries. My hand stung, probably from the shock it was forced to absorb when I tried to stop my fall. My eyes widened, panicking when I remembered the delicate syringe I held. A quick downward glance showed that nothing was broken except, perhaps, my dignity.

“Oh, damn!” I heard Josiah say. Heard a smack and a whoosh of breath before heavy footsteps approached me. I really hoped it wasn’t going to be—of course it was. The captain of the Seven stood over me, an expression I interpreted as mild pity on his face. He dried his gloved hands on the cloth he’d been using to wipe down his sword, making sure no trace of blood remained before offering one to me.

I shifted the syringe to rest on my left arm and wrapped my right hand around his. With a tug, he had me on my feet again. He squeezed my hand for a moment to make sure I wouldn’t flop right back down again, then released it.

“Forgive him,” Tristan said, jerking his head in the direction of a still chuckling Josiah. In a slightly louder voice: “He fell on his head too many times as a child.” This only made Josiah fall to his knees, his laughs now more like gasps for air. “And probably many times since,” Tristan amended.

“Thanks,” I said, opening and closing my right hand. “S’okay.”

Tristan straightened and, seeing that I wasn’t going to hurt myself further under his watch, turned and rejoined his group, giving Josiah another hard smack on the shoulder. “Get a grip, dumbass,” he said before picking up his sword and sliding it into its sheath that ran down the center of his spine to his tailbone. “Let’s pack up and go home. We’re done here,” he growled. His team immediately sobered up and began putting their weapons away, tucking helmets under arms and brushing dust off their legs. The medics fluttered around them, checking cuts and bruises like they were supposed to have done minutes ago.

I scurried off, just wanting to forget the last two minutes and hoping Stephen and the rest of my Drag cohorts were too busy to see any of it.

***

If Stephen witnessed my embarrassment, he gave no indication, just motioned me towards the center of the carcass. The dead dragon still emitted a good deal of heat. I could feel it pressing on me as I drew closer, syringe in hand, like a shield that protected the remains even as life drained out of it. From the pale scars that criss-crossed its body, the yellowed teeth, and the longer flaps of skin hung from either side of its massive maw, I could tell that this dragon was older. We had yet to determine any pattern or strategy to the attacks or what the dragons were really after other than simply terrorizing us enough so we abandoned the city and allowed them to reclaim the swaths of land that once belonged exclusively to them. When Duffy complained that there didn’t used to be dragons in the Valley, he failed to mention that humans had forced them out and built the city on top of their relinquished territory. Without knowing why, I reached out and patted one of the massive haunches. This dragon had been a tough old geezer.

Though I felt slightly sorry for each dragon the Seven managed to bring down, I only had to look around at the destruction they wrought, the sickening smell of human flesh burning down to the bone before brushed all those thoughts away and got on with my work.

Stephen and Duffy always left the heart vein for me to tap into. While the others used their pen-sized lasers to cut through the scales and insert their needles, my job required a deft hand and unwavering confidence, finding just the right spot between the ribs and plunging the pointy end in without it shattering. I could never explain how I did it. It was a feeling—a knowing—as I scraped the needle lightly against the softer, lighter skin of the underbelly until I felt that nudge in my brain that let me know the tissue would yield, allowing the ochre-colored fluid to fill the empty vial.

I prepared myself, planting my feet and shifting one slightly behind for stability when I used my bodyweight to help push the needle through. I felt along the ridges between the skin, my hand seeking that perfect stick site. I paused. Something was off. I stepped back and shook out my right hand. Maybe that fall was worse than I thought. My hands felt slippery inside my gloves. I shrugged my shoulders, trying to get back into the zone. Took five deep breaths, counting to five on the inhales, then five on the exhales. Dammit, Hiraya, I berated myself, pull yourself together. I saw Stephen look at me, head cocked to the side in silent question. I waved a hand to indicate it was nothing, and he took me at my word.

I probably should have stopped and taken a break, told Stephen the heat and the fall were getting to me. Should have put down the darn syringe and waited until I felt more like myself. But, spying the departing figures of the Seven, I felt a wave of determination to prove something to them: Josiah with his mocking, Tristan with his pity, and the rest of the Seven with their smug superiority. I drove the needle between my fingers with as much strength as I could muster. I watched the vial fill up with the precious heart blood and almost painted a satisfied smile on my face when I felt a stabbing pain shoot up my arm. I staggered back, letting go of the syringe and not caring if it fell to the ground. I turned my hand over to see my fingers smeared with amber liquid. But that wasn’t what concerned me—I’d gotten dragon blood on me before. What froze me in place was the bead of red blooming from a tiny hole in my glove. I watched in horror and fascination as the bead dropped and splattered on my palm, only to have another one take it’s place. I rotated my hand, trying to keep the hearts blood from mixing with mine, but it was too late. Gold and red swirled together, fighting each other for a moment before surrendering and melding together.

I stared as an unearthly glow began seeping into my veins. In that moment, I could have sworn the sky darkened, swallowing up our shadows. Warm wind began to swirl around my feet, whipping up dust and debris and amplifying the smell of drying dragon blood. I started running to Stephen, holding my hand out in front of me, when I felt the earth heave.