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hellorhighwater“You gonna kill me?”
That was the only reason a guy like him would be alone in an abandoned building with a guy like fourteen year old Neil Blair. He was less than five feet tall, not quite a hundred pounds soaking wet, and spent half his time in hospitals sick with shit doctors couldn't fix. The guy across from him was next level bad news.
Damn near seven feet tall, in bike leathers, with a goatee that made him look like the fucking devil—and he'd paid that shithead senior, Kyle Lockhart, a thousand bucks to get Neil here for a meeting.
Yeah, this guy was into some serious shit. And Neil was probably gonna die.
Watching the big biker raise an eyebrow at the bug Neil had become under his shoe, he was weirdly okay with dying. He knew it was coming eventually—it was the only logical place someone like Neil could end up. Came into the world with nothing, go out with less than nothing, shot up or strangled by some demon fucking Hell's Angel. Maybe he'd be creative, at least, and rip off Neil's head or something.
Dying on the street, doing some messed up shit before he even turned eighteen...this was Neil's destiny. And he was okay with it.
Because Neil had no reason not to be. No family, no friends...no hope. Just more nights of being afraid and alone, wondering where the next beatdown was coming from and what he'd lose in it. More days spent trying to keep his cool and waiting for the next fever that would put him in the hospital and kill him.
Truthfully, Neil didn't care if he lived or died. He had no reason to—at least getting murdered, rather than burning up in a hospital bed, Neil could fight back. Maybe he could get a fist to connect and feel that strange, electric heat that always had the other boys running, scrambling, screaming with the burn scars his knuckles inevitably left behind.
“I didn't pay that boy to hire you just so I could end your life, little Ember.”
Neil squinted at the other man warily. “You asked Lockhart to sell that weed and make me watch his back?”
“I did.” the Hell's Angel replied. Taking a step forward, he extended one hand, palm up. Neil waited...and waited...and wondered what the hell he was supposed to be looking at.
Then he realized that there was nothing there. Literally nothing.
The abandoned building that had been so dim and dark moments before was suddenly growing lighter, with all that shadow coalescing into the space about half an inch above the biker's palm. It was a point of pure void, one that actually leaped and flickered like some kind of sick black flame.
“Shadow is mine to command—just as fire is yours.” the biker explained. He closed his fingers suddenly, making the black fire vanish—filling the space with light from a work lamp he hadn't been able to see before.
“Like magic? Real magic?” Neil asked, staring dead into the biker's eyes with unabashed incredulity. “You fucking serious, dude?”
The biker just smiled. It would have been creepy...except there was something in his eyes Neil had never seen before, something big and heavy and...proud? Nah...
“They tell you the scars and the burns are something else—that they aren't your fault.” the biker replied. “They are. When your rage comes, people burn. You're more fortunate than most, you've forced yourself to cope, but without the proper instruction, little Ember, you will die.”
Neil felt fear, hearing the truth laid out so bluntly—but it was a weird sort of comfort, too. Sure, the guy was batshit loco, but...he was right, too. He knew, he always knew when he hurt someone, when touching his skin would burn. It happened, sometimes, when he ended up in the hospital, burning with fevers he couldn't remember because he was so far gone.
The guy was an asshole...but every instinct Neil had told him he was being real. Neil wasn't crazy.
“Would it be so bad if I did?”
The biker knelt there, just staring, with the strangest look on his face Neil had ever seen. He looked like he'd been slapped, something black and terrible and...sad in his eyes.
Then his hand shot out, and Neil was sure he was dead.
...only the big, long fingers curled around the nape of his neck, big palm warm and cool against his skin at the same time as it sealed there. There was strength in it, impossible strength that could snap him in half.
It just...sat there, though. Heavy, warm and cool, so strong and so still it sank into Neil's bones down where the rain sometimes had him in so much pain he wanted to scream, so much pain he wanted to do worse and cry. This hand didn't hurt...and yet for some reason, Neil's eyes still started to fill with tears.
“Make no mistake, foundling: I will not be kind. I will test you, I will torture you, I will push you to the breaking point. I will tear you apart...but I will put you back together again, and when I do? You may hate me, you may fear me...but you will never have cause to ask that question again. On the Blood, I swear.”
That same weight, that same warmth and coolness was in his voice, and now Neil felt both terrified and weirdly protected. He didn't know what to do with it, and he didn't want to trust it.
He did, though—because he was making the only kind of promise Neil could trust: a promise of pain.
“When?” he finally asked, bowing his head and scrubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. His voice was steady, and for that he was grateful.
“At once—not here, but in my world. The Five Realms.” the biker replied. All at once, the hand on his nape was gone, and as the guy stood Neil felt suddenly frigid, more alone than he was used to.
“You have until morning to prepare.”
“But I'm ready now.”
The biker raised an eyebrow. “You are?”
Neil nodded. “Yeah. It ain't like I gotta pack shit. I got nothin' I want.” He swallowed hard, and made himself stand a little straighter, made himself look up into the older man's eyes.
“I got no one gonna miss me.” he declared, then to press his point...and because it sounded important...
“On the Blood, I swear.”
The biker smiled again. If Neil hadn't known better, he'd have said he looked kind of...amazed.
“That is not an oath you can make, little Ember.” he chided. “But the will of the gods be upon your tongue.”
Crossing the room, the biker shut off the work lamp, plunging the room into darkness. Neil's heart lurched into his throat for a long moment as his eyes tried to adjust to the sudden absence of light. Gradually, the street lights streaming through nearby windows up high gave him enough to see by...
Only to find that the darkness was moving. And on the other side of it, Neil swore he could see candlelight.
It was blotted out by the silhouette of the biker again. Neil heard fabric shifting, and sensed closeness...a hand in front of him.
“In the Five Realms, I am known as the Night Dragon—king of Nocturne.”
Neil took a deep breath, then reached out blindly. Long, powerful fingers closed around his.
“I'm Neil Blair—and I'm nobody.”
The Night Dragon laughed, and it chilled Neil's blood as the other man steered him towards the portal crafted out of pure darkness.
“Not for long, little Ember. The will of the gods upon my tongue, little Ember: I will make of you a man fit to serve a king.”
That was the only reason a guy like him would be alone in an abandoned building with a guy like fourteen year old Neil Blair. He was less than five feet tall, not quite a hundred pounds soaking wet, and spent half his time in hospitals sick with shit doctors couldn't fix. The guy across from him was next level bad news.
Damn near seven feet tall, in bike leathers, with a goatee that made him look like the fucking devil—and he'd paid that shithead senior, Kyle Lockhart, a thousand bucks to get Neil here for a meeting.
Yeah, this guy was into some serious shit. And Neil was probably gonna die.
Watching the big biker raise an eyebrow at the bug Neil had become under his shoe, he was weirdly okay with dying. He knew it was coming eventually—it was the only logical place someone like Neil could end up. Came into the world with nothing, go out with less than nothing, shot up or strangled by some demon fucking Hell's Angel. Maybe he'd be creative, at least, and rip off Neil's head or something.
Dying on the street, doing some messed up shit before he even turned eighteen...this was Neil's destiny. And he was okay with it.
Because Neil had no reason not to be. No family, no friends...no hope. Just more nights of being afraid and alone, wondering where the next beatdown was coming from and what he'd lose in it. More days spent trying to keep his cool and waiting for the next fever that would put him in the hospital and kill him.
Truthfully, Neil didn't care if he lived or died. He had no reason to—at least getting murdered, rather than burning up in a hospital bed, Neil could fight back. Maybe he could get a fist to connect and feel that strange, electric heat that always had the other boys running, scrambling, screaming with the burn scars his knuckles inevitably left behind.
“I didn't pay that boy to hire you just so I could end your life, little Ember.”
Neil squinted at the other man warily. “You asked Lockhart to sell that weed and make me watch his back?”
“I did.” the Hell's Angel replied. Taking a step forward, he extended one hand, palm up. Neil waited...and waited...and wondered what the hell he was supposed to be looking at.
Then he realized that there was nothing there. Literally nothing.
The abandoned building that had been so dim and dark moments before was suddenly growing lighter, with all that shadow coalescing into the space about half an inch above the biker's palm. It was a point of pure void, one that actually leaped and flickered like some kind of sick black flame.
“Shadow is mine to command—just as fire is yours.” the biker explained. He closed his fingers suddenly, making the black fire vanish—filling the space with light from a work lamp he hadn't been able to see before.
“Like magic? Real magic?” Neil asked, staring dead into the biker's eyes with unabashed incredulity. “You fucking serious, dude?”
The biker just smiled. It would have been creepy...except there was something in his eyes Neil had never seen before, something big and heavy and...proud? Nah...
“They tell you the scars and the burns are something else—that they aren't your fault.” the biker replied. “They are. When your rage comes, people burn. You're more fortunate than most, you've forced yourself to cope, but without the proper instruction, little Ember, you will die.”
Neil felt fear, hearing the truth laid out so bluntly—but it was a weird sort of comfort, too. Sure, the guy was batshit loco, but...he was right, too. He knew, he always knew when he hurt someone, when touching his skin would burn. It happened, sometimes, when he ended up in the hospital, burning with fevers he couldn't remember because he was so far gone.
The guy was an asshole...but every instinct Neil had told him he was being real. Neil wasn't crazy.
“Would it be so bad if I did?”
The biker knelt there, just staring, with the strangest look on his face Neil had ever seen. He looked like he'd been slapped, something black and terrible and...sad in his eyes.
Then his hand shot out, and Neil was sure he was dead.
...only the big, long fingers curled around the nape of his neck, big palm warm and cool against his skin at the same time as it sealed there. There was strength in it, impossible strength that could snap him in half.
It just...sat there, though. Heavy, warm and cool, so strong and so still it sank into Neil's bones down where the rain sometimes had him in so much pain he wanted to scream, so much pain he wanted to do worse and cry. This hand didn't hurt...and yet for some reason, Neil's eyes still started to fill with tears.
“Make no mistake, foundling: I will not be kind. I will test you, I will torture you, I will push you to the breaking point. I will tear you apart...but I will put you back together again, and when I do? You may hate me, you may fear me...but you will never have cause to ask that question again. On the Blood, I swear.”
That same weight, that same warmth and coolness was in his voice, and now Neil felt both terrified and weirdly protected. He didn't know what to do with it, and he didn't want to trust it.
He did, though—because he was making the only kind of promise Neil could trust: a promise of pain.
“When?” he finally asked, bowing his head and scrubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. His voice was steady, and for that he was grateful.
“At once—not here, but in my world. The Five Realms.” the biker replied. All at once, the hand on his nape was gone, and as the guy stood Neil felt suddenly frigid, more alone than he was used to.
“You have until morning to prepare.”
“But I'm ready now.”
The biker raised an eyebrow. “You are?”
Neil nodded. “Yeah. It ain't like I gotta pack shit. I got nothin' I want.” He swallowed hard, and made himself stand a little straighter, made himself look up into the older man's eyes.
“I got no one gonna miss me.” he declared, then to press his point...and because it sounded important...
“On the Blood, I swear.”
The biker smiled again. If Neil hadn't known better, he'd have said he looked kind of...amazed.
“That is not an oath you can make, little Ember.” he chided. “But the will of the gods be upon your tongue.”
Crossing the room, the biker shut off the work lamp, plunging the room into darkness. Neil's heart lurched into his throat for a long moment as his eyes tried to adjust to the sudden absence of light. Gradually, the street lights streaming through nearby windows up high gave him enough to see by...
Only to find that the darkness was moving. And on the other side of it, Neil swore he could see candlelight.
It was blotted out by the silhouette of the biker again. Neil heard fabric shifting, and sensed closeness...a hand in front of him.
“In the Five Realms, I am known as the Night Dragon—king of Nocturne.”
Neil took a deep breath, then reached out blindly. Long, powerful fingers closed around his.
“I'm Neil Blair—and I'm nobody.”
The Night Dragon laughed, and it chilled Neil's blood as the other man steered him towards the portal crafted out of pure darkness.
“Not for long, little Ember. The will of the gods upon my tongue, little Ember: I will make of you a man fit to serve a king.”
