IN A WORLD OF peculiar phenomena, being licked half to death by a golden cat-Dragon upon waking had to count as one of her most bizarre experiences yet. Stranger than that lucid, too real, sap-blighting dream. Arguably, it also had to do with the fact that the monster had just been solicitous enough to extract a barbed, inch-long thorn from the muscle of her left buttock, to be exact, and waved it before Allory’s watering eyes as she muttered a few crustier-than-usual words.

That did not stop her heart from outpacing a hummingbird. It was no longer beating, just vibrating non-stop.

“Thorn,” it purred, in a burry but intelligible voice.

“Eep!” Allory blinked anxiously. “You speak?”

The creature stared down at her with such a majestic excess of dignity, she knew she had just made an epic blunder, as in, the sort that eclipsed the entirety of Middlesun itself.

Suggid-sucking fool!

Swallowing back a branch – or half a jungle – stuck to her tongue, she spluttered, “I should … thank you, uh … for the thorn … and uh … my life?”

The fiery orbs did not blink. Totally unnerving, to gaze into pools of living fire. How did they not sizzle in their own juices and burn up? The gorgeous, slightly bowed golden whiskers that sprouted from either side of its muzzle twitched twice. The twin tips of a rasping white tongue flicked lightly between the creature’s remarkably elongated incisors, snakelike, as if scenting or tasting the precise savour of her edible properties. To her increasingly unnerved eye, this beast was sleek, fast and armed with an array of lethal weaponry that made it a hundred times more dangerous than anything that had tried to kill her in the jungle so far.

One Allory Dragon-breath-grilled to culinary perfection rather than hastily scrambled by Ripper talons? Great! Clearly an improvement to her day.

Away, mental image.

Open mouth. Insert half a Faerie colony! Oh, Allory …

She stroked her antennae with a quick, fretful gesture, before managing to gabble a few words. “And … since I haven’t quite been eaten yet, am I to find … encouragement?”

“Eaten? The insult, mrrr-frrt! My kind do not consume intelligent creatures,” the golden one snarled, before cracking open its – his, she corrected hastily, less this further misstep compound her earlier gaffe – mouth to show off many more fangs than a Faerie might consider comforting to be staring at. Especially since not one was shorter than her entire arm. He said, “Considering your accusation, I shall have to reserve judgement on the intelligence quotient.”

Her jaw sagged so far something made a tiny clicking sound near her left ear.

The Dragon regarded the tiny Fae with suitably majestic, withering contempt – or did she misread his scorching emotions? Aloofness, aye. Majesty as thick as jungle boughs. Intelligence simmered in those blazing eyes, which she had wholly mistaken for brutish cruelty.

Blow me down with a puff of pollen …

What she could not fathom for the very life of her sap, however, was why the killing had stopped? Felines were said to play with their prey. Was he one of these?

Allory quavered, “I … well, but … I didn’t … see?”

Chirruping like a mauve forest finch.

Clearly, no Basilisk would win a staring competition with this beast. She had just become aware of a certain sweatiness in unsociable places due to that febrile feline-Dragon glare, when he gave a great snort that gusted heated air over her torso and legs, but no actual fire. She tucked up her limbs only to discover her recoiling was unnecessary, for he chortled unexpectedly:

“Prrr-hurr-harr! Your face, your face!”

Mellow tones of burry amusement, the tyrant. Allory folded her arms crossly. She knew a thing or three about ridicule.

“Too funny, prrr-haa-haa-prrr! Oh, your expression is too precious by far, prrr-hu-harr-prrr … achoo!”

Fire sizzled overhead as the Scintillant, too shocked to move a muscle, failed to duck. Her muscles also failed to do anything useful, leading to her falling over with a brief exclamation, “Ouch! Eep … eeeh?”

Rational speech? Not an option just now.

The beastly beast smiled a horribly beastly carnivorous smile down at her, hardly helping matters. “Ah, one grows allergic even to such cuteness. You –” a Ripper-slapper of a furry paw ruffled her spiky hair with a teasing gesture, causing her to wonder suddenly where his talons had vanished to “– are cute. Quite irresistibly, irredeemably, unbelievably cute. A true miniature Fae, mrrr-frrr. What a find!”

What? A find?

Being described as delicious or mouth-watering might have been more believable than this nonsense. Was the cat entirely sane? Not that she had the first thread on the weave of sanity herself, considering the dream from which she had just now been licked, slurped and slobbered awake. Some not-shadow creature turning into Xertiona? Whacky-sap and then some.

Folding her arms crossly, she sat up. “I am so not –”

Her pathetic protest earned her a sight of at least fifteen more fangs and a guffaw that almost blew her right back over. “Epic cuteness! See?”

She had better agree. Survival first.

“No, I’m anything but cute,” she protested. The whiskers above his whirling eye fires twitched upward. “Uh, I mean, I … am? Maybe a little? If you say so, great … umm, cat … monster-thingy?”

Her half-voiced question trailed off.

That was a great deal of cat to be breathing down a small girlfae’s neck. Epic described her foolishness. Clearly. Maybe best not to insult it? Especially, she should not use words like ‘monster’ or ‘deadly predator.’ Might end badly. Allory touched her throat, trying to will it not to close, for the welling panic to subside, for her thoughts to calm down and stop dashing about inside her head like a swarm of disturbed auburn hornets. It did not mean to chew her up and spit out her bones. Not yet, as best she could tell.

Perhaps this wicked fiend preferred to acquaint himself first with morsels before tossing them headfirst down that capacious gullet?

While Allory imagined dissolving into a puddle and gratefully seeping away through the jungle floor, the creature drew himself up with an overwhelming air of gravitas and majesty, and announced, “If I may introduce myself, little Fae? I am Yaarah-al-Allegorix Mazzurkar Tarime, Fourteenth of my Dynasty, Golden Purrmaine Felidragon, scholar, explorer and adventurer extraordinaire, at your service.”

“Eep?”

Classic squeak.

“Yaarah-al-Allegorix – never mind that, vrrr-trrrt! Scholar. I am a Feline Dragon, or Felidragon for short. Let me simplify for one of miniscule mind. As for form of address, Yaarah will do. Yaarah – can you say that? I’ll say it slower, do try to keep up, little Fae. Yaa-rah.”

Staring through fifty needle-sharp fangs right down his long, long throat did not help one’s sense of ease or dignity, not one snippet. When the unsettling stare demanded reply, she gasped, “I’m … uh, I think … I’m Allory. Eep! Aye. Scintillant – and, uh, intelligent creature.”

By whose standard would that be?

Dragon glare!

“Not so intelligent as to unwisely lead an entire troop of Ripper Baboons to your lair, uh … mighty … Yaarah?” she gabbled on. Those fires in his eyes waxed and whirled, bizarrely mesmeric. “I’m awfully sorry, major blunder and all that. Bad day. It’s been a bad few days, actually … which sort of landed me in your lair, so to squeak?”

He stared at her.

“Speak! I meant, speak.”

“Bad even for a … Scintillant Fae?”

The way he named her kind!

Like she was the rarest treasure he had ever clapped his mesmerising eyes upon.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Gulp.

Could he be a collector? Collectors were a nightmare to her kind, those who imprisoned or even studied Fae in captivity. Shudder!

Given as her temperament was one which ordinarily could be accused of being frightened of her own shadow, Allory could not quite work out why she had not collapsed in a hyperventilating heap right now. Or fainted all over again. Quaking like a jungle tremor, aye. Violent and repeated waves of nausea, check. Annoyance with that ridiculous Fae who had just fainted a moment ago? Indeed. All of these were strangely present.

Instant death for reason of unmitigated terror? Not so much.

How peculiar. Perplexing, even.

Glancing away from that migraine-inducing draconic stare, she whispered, “I … I’d appreciate it if you’d stare at me less … less fiercely, Mister Dragon. Aye, I am a Scintillant Faerie – minus the actual mythical sparkles – and you are a Felidragon … that’s a feline sort of Dragon, right? As you said. Sorry. Um, I just want to go, pretty please – well, let me put it this way, while you saved my life and I’m deeply grateful, obviously I am – I … uh, I’m –”

Trying to discover how fast my heart can beat before exploding?

Covering her eyes with her hands and using her elbows to hug her knees to her chest, Allory wished fervently that he would pick up his massive paws and depart this region of the jungle. Yesterday. Less of the fiery gawping and a few jungles’ worth of separation would suit her in every droplet of her life’s sap.

Inhale, exhale, feel weirdly alive. Weirder still, enjoy the sap-buzz of life despite her injuries and current perilous – make that terminally perilous – situation.

“You saved mine, mrrr-wrrt?” he noted meantime.

“Mostly by accident, uh, master blaster … I mean, master Dragon. It was nothing, really.”

Really don’t eat me. Please.

She peeked between her fingers. Suggids, no need for actual knives among his kind. Every inch of his body screamed, ‘Fiery carnivore!’ The Felidragon still had that bonfire’s-best-stare going. Allory hid her face again. Anything was better than sitting on this pile of leaf garbage speaking to that many fangs, all in one mouth, which kept sort of cat-smiling at her in ways she fervently hoped never to become better acquainted with.

After a pause of terrifying enormity, despite that it could only have been a few seconds at most, he purred, “Indeed, I warmly congratulate you upon accidentally saving my neck with a throw of outstanding precision – indeed, your second slaying of the day. Prrr-brrrt! Quite the feat. How many of your kind may claim to have slain two Ripper Baboons in one battle, I ask you?”

Her eyes widened. Headshake. Another peek. No. She still could not face those eyes.

She was not sure if she heard some kind of purr-snort of amusement over there, or if Yaarah was just clearing the path down his throat.

“I thought not, hrrr-prrr,” he noted at length. “Those wretched meddlers and I have had a few run-ins, and our kinds hate one another with a passion as ancient as it is unquenchable. Your deed merits my unbounded gratitude. Now, Allory Fae, tell me: are you indeed a rare and magical Scintillant?”

Nod. Gulp again. Nod twice, since he seemed unsure.

“Confirmed and sworn upon your honour?”

She bobbed her antennae again and tried to meet his gaze as Scintillants had always said was best when confronting predators. Rather unsure of the value of that advice just now. “Uh, aye? That’s … right? It was said we used to sparkle – to scintillate – all the time … but nowadays, real scintillance is as rare as purple pollen in a breeze … uh …”

Maybe if she wasn’t half as fabulously scintillant as he hoped, he’d not harm her?

Sleek monster. She supposed his kind must find the lush golden fur rather handsome. For a cat. With wings. Whose very breath smelled of oddly sweet fire.

Once more with the sweat-inducing stare, and then Yaarah purred, “For twenty-one seasons, I have been searching for the very rarest of all the Faerie kind – to wit, the Scintillant Fae, hrrrt-prrr. Are there any more of you about, purr-chance?”

More Allorys? Quick headshake. Thankfully not.

“Certain?”

The word came out as ‘cerrr-tain?’ His accent had the strangest way of throwing purrs and growls into his speech, making her wonder if this was a Felidragon affectation, or even additional nuances he would use to communicate with his kind. She had been raised on tales of Dragons, of course, like any little Faeling, but never imagined them like this, never so unutterably terrifying in their beautiful, fiery actuality. Massive. Supple. Erudite. She took in all the hope-withering details of this creature, such as the delicate tongues of flame that curled about his fangs as he spoke and the living flame dancing in his eyes.

Allory whispered, “I’m the last.”

“That’s … unfortunate. No, do I sense there’s more to your story?”

“A few days ago, my family – my people – were captured by slavers. Marakusian Slavers.” To her embarrassment, her voice cracked with misery. “I was left behind. What does it matter? I’m none of those things you named – rare or magical or whatever. Not at all sparkly, see? Just the sapphire skin –”

“Mrrr-hssst, but you are brave –”

“Brave? That’s the very last thing I am!” she burst out.

Burying her head back beneath in her arms, Allory tried to withhold a sob. She could not. Worse, after a moment, the Dragon nuzzled her gently, his fur softer than silk, his breath now scented like smoky honey, his rough tongue rasping along her bare arm. “Peace, little Fae.”

Peace? Not a word she would have chosen among a million just now.

Her brain screeched, My arm’s being slurped at by a monster! However, her mouth managed a quite reasonable, “I’m not brave and I’m no warrior. Definitely not.”

“Nor are you any liar, but that statement is a demonstrable falsehood,” said he, insistent as the day was long.

Drawing himself up with massive menace, the Felidragon stretched over her bent back and gently – very gently – licked at the deep wound left in her flight muscles. Allory shuddered, fighting the sneaking dread that once he developed a taste for Fae blood, the end would be swift indeed.

Snick, snack, snothing ever after?

Ew. Horrible joke.

The Felidragon added, “I do command some rudimentary healing magic, but you will need a healer’s expert touch to treat this grave wound. Mrrr-hrrr, I happen to know just the Pixie. Now, I was directed to bring back the Scintillant Fae, by any means possible, in order to help the Golden Purrmaine Felidragons, but since your fortuitously perfect throw turned disaster into victory quicker than the flip of a Dragon’s wings, it must behove a creature of any integrity at all to request the great honour of this fearless Scintillant Fae joining his quest.”

Disbelief made her shoulders shake. Great honour? Fearless? Not in this part of the jungle, mister Dragon!

Quest? her mind warbled meantime, clearly neck-deep in a whole different sort of nectar. Whatever under Middlesun is this pretty prowler prattling on about?

She had no clue.

“Knee-high to a thimble might you stand, Allory Fae, but already your stature waxes great – or know you not that to earn the life-debt of a Felidragon is among the greatest and rarest signs our Philosophers and Sages sing of? Frrr-GRRR! Gnarr!”

Oh no! It ended now.

His ire rolled over her with every overheated breath, yet still she lived – and breathed, just about. Wish as she might that her ears would close, they did not. She popped her head up, only to have him snap forcefully a mere inch or two from her quivering wingtips:

“Do not dishonour my rightful response to your deeds, o Allory of the Scintillant Fae! You could have fled. You could have chosen to save your own skin, frrr-prrrt. Instead, you turned and released your only weapon even in the face of many deadly foes. I know not why you feel small within, but I will tell you this upon the honour of a Dragon …”

The Felidragon paused to sigh, to purr profoundly, and then he expelled a flame so delicate, it whispered over her face and upper arms, seeming to peel aside the dirt, to cleanse so deeply, it sank into her pores and vanished within. Her jaw dangled as the flame licked across her arms and down her aching torso, reaching to her injured knee. Her skin tingled. It did not burn, except with an inner awareness of agitation at the magical level.

What rational thought could form and fizz in her brain now? Every sense reeled. Why did he say such things? Was the wisdom of Dragons truly so great and penetrating that he knew the true flow of her blood-sap at a mere glance?

“Little Fae,” he said, moderating his speech to rather less of a heated gale, “true bravery lies not in many great boasts, but in seeing what must be done and doing it without hesitation. Feeling invincible is not bravery. Feeling small and helpless yet still doing the right thing? That is admirable.”

She exhaled slowly. Allory wanted to shout that he knew nothing about her, nothing about how puny, afraid and useless she was, but this Felidragon would learn soon enough.

Strangest of all, a tiny shoot of – well, something, budded within her heart.

It was too new, too nascent and fragile to earn a word like courage, but there it was. She rubbed her breastbone in puzzlement. Wholly un-Allory, yet exhilarating. Scintillating!

Reaching out a trembling hand, she watched her teensy blue fingers stroke the fur of his flank. Who of her colony had ever dared such a gesture? “Yaarah, I won’t pretend to understand any of this, but since you appear to have mistaken me for a creature of some small bravery, I will not complain. What can I do? I can’t offer magic or skills or much … much of anything at all.”

“You will see,” he purred assertively.

“See what?”

“That Dragons are always right, zrrr-prrt. Now, we have overstayed our welcome. We must leave before the Ripper Baboons return with twenty times the number to finish what they started – great holders of grudges, the Rippers. Climb aboard.”

“I … your … back?”

Back to a high squeak-factor mode of speech. Allory bit the inside of her mouth. Hard.

“No, I was planning to jam you inside my left earhole for the purposes of transportation! Honestly? Simple question: can you grip my fur?”

“I, uh – eep.”

She nodded quickly, birdlike.

“See? Signs of actual intelligence, brrr-nrrr,” he purred archly, and rubbed his forepaws together as if contemplating the precise blend of seasonings that best suited a draconic dinner of sapphire Scintillant Fae.

Maybe it was dangerous to yank on a Dragon’s fur. Maybe brave. No. Actually, it must be the epitome of foolishness. She did it anyway. Nothing about this made sense. Allory realised she must have fetched her skull a heavy blow when she fainted, because this moment, the moment her knees sank into the rich fur of a Felidragon’s powerful back and she crouched down, winding hanks of silken thread about her fingers in order to gain a firm grip, had all the qualities of a dream born of delirium.

Reality was a place where her family was gone forever, her future was bleak, her weakness and incapacity a foregone conclusion. Dreamland was a place where massive muscles flexed in waves beneath her trembling body as the Dragon snapped open his wings and snarled:

“Hold on tight, Allory Fae.”

She clung on with all her faltering strength and wailed her heart out as he launched forcefully into the air, shooting out of that cenote like a spark launched from a bonfire. With a leathery creak of his wings, Yaarah curved their flight path to her right hand and sent them hurtling away through a series of sarembis boughs thick with Ripper Baboons screaming and barking their hatred. She heard a swish-crack and sensed a slight shudder in his body, a glance backward brought the realisation that he had a gorgeous furry tail that sparked with lighting. It twitched sideways again. Swish-crack! Fire lanced through the leaves, clearing their path. He jinked lithely above a diving Ripper Baboon and sent it into eternity with a disdainful kick of his huge hind paws.

Another Allory, another day, would have glued her eyes shut and sobbed with fear.

This one only grew more wide-eyed by the second. Unexpectedly, laughter burbled inside her chest. I’m riding a Dragon. An actual Dragon! Suck on that, stupid fate!

Quite the nectar-dribbling madfae.