Damaged Gods

He’s not him.

That’s what sinks in as Pell disappears. And suddenly I understand why all those old fairy tales and storybooks make the dragon out to be the evil monster.

Because the dragon is the evil monster.

Tomas is red. I’m not talking some reddish-brown color. I’m not talking some bright valentine-heart color. I’m talking hellfire red with a healthy dose of orange and yellow. I’m talking rivers of lava flowing over brimstone. That’s what color he is.

His eyes are black. And then, suddenly, they’re not. They’re yellow. Not some sunshine yellow, either. They are sickly green-yellow. The color of a disease.

He opens his mouth and that stench… it’s not just the den of filth he lives in. It’s not just the nest that reeks of demons. It’s him.

He exhales poison.

And his teeth. Yellow-orange and blue-gray. Sharp. So fucking sharp. Like shark teeth.

I’m stuck in place. My feet have no chance of moving. Ever again. So when he opens his mouth, this is all I see. And it’s like… 4-K fucking ultra-sharpness and clarity. Because this isn’t some sci-fi special effects going on here, this is fucking real.

The fire. His mouth is wide open, so I see it. It lives inside him. I watch the tiny flame as it ebbs back in his throat, and then I move. Because it grows.

I truck up those stairs so fast, I take four steps at a time and get around three bends before the flames catch up with me. They shoot up the wall and this is when I notice that the walls are black. They are charred with dragon fire.

But even so, the fire licks at my clothes and then… I am on fire.

I scream and pat at my back, but it’s no good. I have to rub up against the stone walls to smother it.

The dragon roars down below and the entire stairwell shakes. It’s not some deep-bass rumble. It’s fucking shaking. Parts of the walls actually begin to crumble.

I’m in shock. I can’t even move. I just press myself up against the stones and look straight ahead at the opposite wall, waiting for the next barrage of fire.

It doesn’t come. In fact, things calm down a little and I can take a few breaths. I no longer care about the stench. To hell with the stench, my mind is only on the fire.

Then, from down below, I hear Pell calling for me. “Pie! Pie!”

Shit. “I’m still here!”

“Come down a little. Let him see you so I can get past him. I’m done. I have the scales. But I need to sneak past.”

“He’s going to fry you!”

“No. He’s not. He can’t. I’m made of fire too. But he can eat me. And I’d rather not be eaten today, Pie! So distract him!”

I’m burned. I know this for sure because my back is screaming in pain.

“On three,” Pell yells. “Let him see you. Ready?”

“No!”

And then all I hear is, “Two!” Like where the fuck did one go? And something comes over me. I have to do this or Pell will be eaten. So on three, I actually find myself back down at the bottom of the stairs, waving my arms around and yelling at the dragon, who is not looking at me, but behind him where Pell must be.

“Hey! You disgusting smelly shitbag! I’m over here! Look at me! Come get me!”

At first, I think, Well, that’s not gonna work. Because the dragon doesn’t move. But then its head—that massive, armored, spiky head—slowly, like ever so fucking slowly, turns in my direction.

And I see it again.

That tiny flame that will unleash the fires of hell.

And I scream like a stupid teenager in one of those predictable horror movies. It’s shrill and, yeah, I’m embarrassed. But I do not freeze, so I don’t care what I sound like. I run. And again, I take those steps four at a time and even though my legs are burning with effort, I go fast and I get one spiral further up than I did last time.

But even so, the flames catch up with me. Lick at me. Tease me. Taunt me.

And then they burn me.

Pell comes rushing up through them and grabs my hand. Pulling me up more and more twists of the stone staircase until the fire is gone and the heat is mostly tolerable.

And then I pass out.

When I wake I’m lying on my stomach, topless, on the lounger inside the apothecary, and Pell is rubbing that cooling lotion from the steam cave pots all over my back.

“You’re gonna be OK,” he says, his fingers gentle as he applies the cream. “He got you good, but this will take care of it.”

I don’t want to look. I really don’t. But it’s impossible not to see the burned flesh covering my right shoulder.

“Does it hurt?” Pell asks.