Page 11 of Dream Reaper

“Such a spunky snack. I think I like you. You’ll taste sweet.”

“Flames, no!” Meat Pasty snapped off a twig and chucked it toward his head. “You’ll not get one bite out of me! Just go away, would you?”

The twig bounced off several branches and fell uselessly to the ground several feet away from him.

He laughed again and wiggled his nose through the branches at the base of the tree so that he could get a better look at her.

Meat Pasty had climbed halfway up the tree and sat on a wide branch with her arms and legs wrapped around the trunk. She had a headful of long, raven-black hair and a thin face with gaunt hollows in her cheeks. There wasn’t much to her, that was for sure.

He’d barely get a mouthful out of her. Maybe two.

The dragon let his gaze rove over her again, from the top of her disheveled head down the length of her slender body. At the bottom, he got an eyeful of bloody knees, torn stockings, and muddy boots.

He shouldn’t look at those things.

The thought came from nowhere and didn’t make any sense. He didn’t care about humans or elves or their ridiculous need to cover up their bodies with fabric and animal skins.

He didn’t care about the coverings. Such useless, unnatural things. It was the tender meat underneath⁠—

Leave…her…alone.

The dragon shook the voice aside, growling. He wouldn’t listen. The elf morsel would be his, and no amount of pleading from the other voice would change his mind. It didn’t matter if she smelled like ash, if she smelled like flames or a warm hearth or…

Memories flooded the dragon’s thoughts. Flashes of another life, another time, another being…

Rosy-cheeked children clustered around a firepit in a longhouse, holding steaming cups of cider as icicles thawed in their hair and ran in rivulets down their chapped faces.

The aroma of rosemary and thyme wafted from the venison in the stewpot. The musty scent of furs wafted from the corners of the longhouse, and he could feel rabbit’s skin against his toes, a warm hand pressing down on his shoulder…

Ma. That’s what they called her. What we called her.

Ma.

He shook the name away with a snarl. “Get out of my head. I am Dragon.”

You are human. Home and hearth and family…

Once again, he felt the presence of the children, of the brothers and sisters clustered around him, sharing his laughter as they sipped the spicy-sweet liquid from their wooden mugs.

He knew their names. Frisk. Axel. Halla. Magnus. And what did they call the little one who liked to leave crumbs for the mice? Oh, yes.

Erik.

But they liked to call him Mouse instead because of the boy’s fondness for the squeaking rodents.

These were people. Friends. Family. These were family.

“I am alone,” he rasped, shaking away the insistent memories. “No family.”

You are not alone. I am here. I will always be here.

More memories washed over him in a violent torrent of thoughts and feelings and dreadful emotions. He staggered under the weight of happiness and love, the call of family, of contentment, of happiness.

No. He wanted to stay angry. Rage made him strong. It made him free and whole, and powerful. None could stand against him when he was fully and truly himself.

“I…am…Dragon…” His words slurred, and he dropped to the ground as his knees gave out.

You are human. Human. HUMAN!