I’ve heard about this. Seen videos during my training. I’ve even seen dragons from a distance…always from a distance. Nothing could have prepared me for witnessing one of them shift in person.
Grim’s bones start to crack. The sound is horrifying – like branches snapping. His back arches, his spine elongating, reshaping.
I’m frozen, watching in horrified fascination as scales push through his flesh. They’re black as midnight.
His face contorts. His jaw extends, teeth becoming fangs. His beautiful dark eyes glow with an inner fire.
Wings burst from his shoulder blades. They unfurl, massive and leathery, blocking out the sun.
The males who were beating him scatter, their weapons clattering to the pavement as they run.
And then there’s nothing human left. Just a monster. A crazed beast. Terrifying, but magnificent.
Where Grim stood moments ago, there’s now a dragon.
His head is gigantic, with horns that curve back from his skull. Bright blue stripes wind down his neck, along his sides, making patterns that are beautiful.
He’s easily the size of a city bus. Maybe bigger.
The male holding me stops trying to break through the clinic door. His arms go rigid around me.
“Shit,” he whispers. “Shit, shit, shit. What the fuck is he doing?” Louder this time.
He renews his efforts, slamming his shoulder against the door with frantic desperation. The glass cracks. Not much, but enough to send a web of fractures spreading across the surface.
I can’t take my eyes off Grim’s dragon.
His head swivels, those glowing eyes scanning the parking lot where shifters that were once beating on Grim are now scattering, desperate to get away. The whole transformation only lasted seconds, even though it felt like a lifetime.
One of the shifters makes a break for it, sprinting toward the street.
Grim’s dragon moves with terrifying speed. His jaws open, and fire erupts from his throat.
The flames are white-hot, so bright I have to squint against the glare. They engulf the running shifter before he makes it three steps.
His scream is cut short.
When the flames die down, there’s nothing left but ash.
Another male tries to run. The dragon’s tail whips around, catching him across the chest. The impact sends him flying. He hits a parked car twenty feet away. The car’s door crumples inward. The male slides to the ground and doesn’t move.
“We have to get inside,” the bald shifter holding me mutters. “We have to get inside now, or we will die.”
He backs up a few steps, then charges the door again with all his weight. The cracked glass gives way with a sharp explosion of sound. Shards rain down around us as we crash through.
Sally screams. She’s backed herself against her desk, phone still clutched in her hand.
I look back at Grim’s dragon through the shattered doorway.
He’s tearing through the parking lot like a force of nature. Two more of the anti-vaxxers are hiding behind a truck. Grim grabs the entire vehicle in his massive claws and tosses it aside like it weighs nothing.
The truck flips end over end, crashing into a light post. The post snaps, sparks flying as the electrical lines tear free. The truck lands upside down with a tremendous bang, its alarm blaring.
The two males scramble out from their hiding spot, running in opposite directions.
Dragons aren’t allowed to shift without supervision. Without a rider bonded to them to help maintain control. Or, at the very least, multiple dragons with their riders present to contain them if things go south.
They have to apply to shift and may do so once a week, but only under supervision. Not like this. Never like this.
