Chapter 3

CW: Sexual Assault

The woman in red strode through the streets of New York, leaving attention in her wake, both male and female. Her heels clicked rhythmically, purposefully, on a mission to find the new dragon. She sighed.

I’ve never done this before ... Li always seemed so confident.

She thought back to when she had Awakened. It had been violent.

She came from a long line of Viking warriors, hair and spirits blazing. She remembered the cold burn of fire in ice, the chilling breeze barely kept in check by the flames. She remembered.

‘Come here Jean.’

She knelt by the flames, carving the small piece of ochre oak she had been given for her birthday. She ignored him, as she had been trying to do, for the last few days. But every night, he had returned.

‘Come here, Jean.’

The voice was more purposeful now. But still, she ignored him. Her father always came back later with the carcass, his duty and right as chief, where all the women would then strip the meat, salt and preserve the flesh for their future stores to last them through the cold winters. Jean longed to hunt with him. She could run faster than any boy her age. It was almost like she could fly.

The warmth of the cabin was masked by the chill that began to erupt up her spine, an almost imperceptible tremor that went unnoticed, simply because no one else was around. She had been foolish, and lost track of time. She hadn’t noticed the voices fade into the wind, until there was nothing left but the dancing ice and snow that twirled around the logs, signalling danger, danger, danger.

Her cheeks burned.

‘Come here, Jean.’

Sometimes, the voice was tipsy. Swollen with fermented pride and pissed away frustrations. She was lucky then. Mead dulled the mind, and slowed one’s reflexes, making it easy to escape.

She continued to scratch the wood, more intensely now. She didn’t notice, but her hands were beginning to draw upon the fire, her fingers sparkling with flames, drawing red tears of sap from the oak, her hands now autonomous.

Today the voice was sober. And the voice was coming closer.

‘We don’t have long, Jean. Haven’t you missed me?’

Suddenly, the voice was right next to her. It grabbed her neck with chunky, gristled hands and shoved her against the cabin wall. The voice opened its mouth, and bared its teeth, yellow and rotten, with the brutal odour of desire pulsating with heavy breathing.

Jean wanted to scream, but the voice had its hand on her mouth, and the other somewhere else. Words could not express her distress. Her hand still gripped the ochre wood, now glowing red hot in her right hand, listless by her side.

Strange music filled the air, as Jean’s eyes started to burn. The voice screamed in pain as the smell of cooking flesh grew stronger, flavouring the air with what could only be described as an unusual perfumed incense that burned all the way down into your lungs.

The melody entranced the burning flames, flickering and wavering with each crescendo and decrescendo, until the staccato screams of pain and triumph melded into one harsh, beautiful tune.

Jean held out her blade of ochre, dripping with flames and anger, and drove the point straight into the maw of the beast, setting everything alight in an explosion that lit up the sky decorating the Aurora Borealis with another song.

It was there that Li found her, unconscious, her clothes burnt away to shreds. Amid a sea of black, she lay, her alabaster skin pure as snow; amongst the sins of men.

Jean shivered. That was unusual. She’d survived in the Himalayas as a wild Phoenix but on a warm night in urban jungle? She glanced down at her compass, the needle spinning wildly. The closer she got, the more erratic the movements became. Li was right.

She needed information, but she had not visited this city for over a hundred years. The world had changed whilst she was away in hibernation. The smell hadn’t though. Humans – their greed, gluttony and waste never changed. And neither had the predators who preyed on them. Something about bad historians, repetition and doom.

A curious looking man in blue stood in the middle of the road 500 metres ahead, directing traffic. There appeared to be construction activity. But there was something different about this. She’d been walking all day, in vain, looking, searching.

He looked, no, felt, hungry? Jean came closer, her red shadowed by the dark, an intense maroon. The night was quiet, lit only by stars punctuated by the flashes of machines and ratatat from the drilling.

100 metres.

The man turned around suddenly. A twisted smile warped his face. This one was clearly predator. Not prey.

‘What can I do for you, madam.’ He leered towards Jean, inching closer. His blue uniform was dusty, and his skin the rusty orange colour of clay.

He paused. Then looked through her. His pupils dilated, beads of sweat sliding down his face, asymmetrical.

‘You must be the reward he promised. A mighty fine specimen indeed. Come to Adam and I’ll show you what a real man feels like.’

Jean sighed. Poor guy.

Suddenly he pounced, bowling Jean over, straddling her hips, tearing at her coat, hands around her throat. ‘You’re mine... ‘ he growled. Jean could feel him growing hard, pressing at her entrance. It had been awhile, but she was most certainly not going to let the WuTong be the first to enjoy her after 50 years.