6
Blayze
The sunrise over the water helped ease the chill. Blayze stopped shivering, and his teeth ended their chattering. He sat up to watch the golden orb finish rising. It spoke of safety, freedom, and beauty, pushing his misery into a dark corner of his mind. He became aware of the itch all over his body. Sand was in his clothes, hair, and crusted on his tear-streaked face. He had to get up or go mad. The salt from ocean water would not feel much different, but the idea of it was better than remaining like this. He plunged into the waves and relief overcame the pain. The cold water washed away more than the sand. It cleared his head, wiped the scent of antiseptics from his nostrils, and shut the door on his captivity. Wherever he had been, whatever had been done to him, it was over. Seeking revenge or even reporting it to the authorities would only cause more suffering. He simply wanted it to be in the past and forgotten.
He decided to speak of it once: only to Belle. To do that, he would have to find her, and he did not have a clue where to start looking. His own location was a mystery. Yes, he was at the shore, but which one? Standing there would not help at all, so he began to walk. He chose north because he happened to be facing that way at the moment. As his skin, clothes, and hair dried, becoming stiff with sea salt, and the heat of the day gained power, he considered transforming. Taking flight in dragon form would give him a better perspective of the land and substantially quicken his pace.
Blayze felt his skin begin to shimmer, preparing for the transformation. Excruciating pain shot through his head. He fell to his knees and grabbed it with both hands, opening his mouth in a silent scream.
"Hey, mister. Are you okay?" The words of a young boy broke through the agony.
"Get away from him, son," a gruff voice demanded. "He's probably coming down off some drug, and you could be hurt."
"He needs help, dad. Call the medics or something."
"I will be fine," Blayze murmured, raising his eyes to the child. "I just want to go home. Where am I? Which beach?"
"This is Surfside. Where do you live?" the boy asked.
"Houston," Blayze replied.
"Catch a public transport, buddy. There's a stand down the beach about a quarter mile," the dad stated, tossing a money card at his feet. "There's enough left on that to get you to Houston. Get some professional help and stay off the beach when you're doped up."
"I am not doped up, and thank you for your help," Blayze answered.
"Whatever. Keep lying to yourself. It won't help. Let's go, son."
Blayze saw lots of faces turned his way. As he had wandered down the beach, he had not taken notice of the humans arriving to play in the surf and sun. It was fortunate that he had been unable to transform. It was not against any law to do so in public, but it was frowned upon. Perhaps his brain had been aware of the people's presence on a subconscious level and sent the pain to stop him from changing. What other explanation could there be?
He hated the stares that followed him all the way to the transportation center. He could feel the discomfort and disdain emanating off the crowd, who most likely thought he was a homeless drug addict as the other man had. For someone who prided themselves on working hard and dressing well, it was a hard blow, even worse on a weredragon that came from a world that had no problems of that nature.
Blayze chose to ride in a unit that held a single person rather than share with a group. He was not fit company, and he knew it. The ride would cost more than was on the card the man had generously handed over, but it did not matter. His handprint was all that was needed to access payment for the ride. The requested amount was immediately transferred from his account without a signature.
Blayze made it to his apartment without incident. His heavy footsteps alerted his neighbor, and out she popped, ready to gossip.
"Blayze, I thought you were never coming home. Did you get stuck on the rig for an extra month? You look terrible! Some CIA lady keeps showing up looking for you. Why couldn't she find you if you were pulling a double on the rig? She must not be very good at her job. Don't scare me like that again. Call or something. You want your mail?"
The cheerful chatterbox usually made him smile, but today it made him agitated, almost to the point of anger. He told himself he was just tired and confused, yet it did not seem like the correct conclusion. He had enough control not to shout or say something that would kill their friendship. Instead, he held up his hand to signal her to stop speaking. Shaking his head he grumbled, "Not now," and left her standing speechless in the hallway.
Stripping off the nasty clothes and tossing them in the trash, he went straight to the shower. He scrubbed every inch of his body and head twice, then stood under the stream until it grew cold. When he finally saw himself in the mirror, he was shocked. He was thinner, his hair was longer, and he had a scraggly beard. It had to have taken a full month to grow a beard of that size. Had his captors kept him knocked out for that long? Why? What had they wanted? He needed to talk to Belle. Did this mystery have anything to do with her investigation?
He shaved off the offensive beard and did his best to trim his overlong waves. His fingers discovered a small scar on his scalp. Blayze shrugged it off as an injury that must have happened during his capture. The man in the mirror resembled the one he knew far more now. Only extra portions of food would fix the hollow cheeks, and he was ready to remedy that right away.
Dressing in jeans and a t-shirt, now loose, he realized his boots were missing. He had not been wearing them when he was dumped on the beach. His feet had small cuts all over them from walking barefoot. Oddly, he had not noticed as the injuries occurred. What else had he missed?
The COM link on the wall buzzed. Not wishing to show how terribly his muscles had deteriorated, he tried to answer using his wrist unit, but it was gone, as well as his wallet that contained all his identification. Everything was easy to replace since handprints and eye scanning were used as identification in most places now.
He answered the COM link, blocking any pictures. "Blayze, where are you? The copter should have left ten minutes ago! We can hold them off for another five, but these guys are pissed. They have schedules to keep, and they're threatening to leave us here."
It was his workmates. Today must be the day they were set to return to the oil rig. It really had been a month since he had disappeared. He wanted to tell them to go without him and rush to find Belle, but he had bills to pay and feared breaking the alliance rules in any manner. So, he replied, "I am on the way. Make room for me to land. To get there on time, I have to transform."
Blayze stuffed some clothes into a duffel bag and hurried to the roof. He put the duffel bag string around his neck and left it loose enough to accommodate a dragon's neck. As his skin turned orange and scaly, he waited for the pain in his head to begin. It did, though it was not even close to the pain he had felt on the beach. Relieved that the transformation had made it to completion, he rose into the sky. Wind on his snout, clouds touching his wings, he was truly free at last. This was the real Blayze, and he reveled in it. He needed this more than food, water, or even Belle.
The urge to shoot dragon fire into the air, announcing to the world his freedom and power, was so strong his throat ached. As soon as the idea formed, a shooting pain hit his brain, in the exact spot he had discovered the scar. He decided it was not time to give in to the urge. Whether it was fear or something entirely different that stopped him, he could not be sure. He just knew now was not the time.
Blayze landed several feet from the waiting men and the helicopter. His workmates were arguing with the pilot, obviously trying to stop him from leaving them. Blayze stepped up behind them, unheard over the loud roaring of the vehicle.
"Get on. We are wasting daylight," he announced, causing them to turn and glare. They were not amused by his attempt at humor. Gazing into their angry eyes, he heard the mantra, "Your work companions wish you dead." At that moment, he believed it was the truth. However, knowing he could easily defend himself, he climbed aboard the copter.
