This sinking feeling

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. Then again, there weren’t always breast implants and men wearing jean shorts either. San Fernando Valley hadn’t been called home in decades. Then it had been just a valley teeming with wildlife and expansive bodies of water, the perfect haven for an immortal creature of the Earth such as himself. It wasn’t until the gold rush of the late 1800s that brought people that polluted the pristine, peaceful environment and forced creatures like Atticus to adapt or leave. Atticus had chosen the latter. Since then, he'd visited, but less frequently as the people-infested planet became more prevalent across the entirety of California and then Northern America. This trip, however, would force him directly into the throes of the bustling city. There would be no avoiding the dragons that had hoarded restaurants and shops by the dozens, there would be no avoiding the werewolves in the downtown crowd, or even the vampires that lurked the night clubs. Not if his sister was involved. Atticus had heard rumors that someone in the Valley knew where his sister was, and he wasn't about to leave any stone unturned to find the truth, even if stone-turning involved dragons.

Atticus washed his face in the porcelain basin of the club’s bathroom and cleared his mind of the task ahead. Thankfully, he was alone. It left him ample time to spruce up his appearance. Today he’d chosen a black baroque jacket with interwoven black filigree near invisible to the naked eye, but beautiful in the gleaming raving light of a night club. He’d chosen the black hair and the gothic pale skin, the slightly sunken eyes and devilish smile too. Though, these days,nightclub this appearance came easier and easier.

The bathroom door opened, and the cacophony of the nightclub blared through the tiled walls of the bathroom. A girl entered, obviously tipsy from the way she bumped into the wall opposite the door. Her smile waned when she saw Atticus staring back blankly. She paused, double-checking the sign on the door that clearly read “Queens” and not “Kings” before turning back to Atticus with a look of disgust. Atticus raised an eyebrow and smiled. It was a slight smile, the kind that read danger in every angle, sultry in its context and he swayed away from the sink counter toward her. He was done in there anyway.

“You do know this is the ladies' room, right?” She asked as if her looks of pure admonishment hadn’t already indicated her distaste for his presence.

“But then I wouldn’t have run into such a beautiful Queen such as yourself, now would I?” Atticus purred as he slinked towards her, his demeanor screaming danger and sex. He brushed a fingertip along the underside of her chin and felt her shudder beneath his touch. His smile grew, flashing white teeth when the sudden sound of giggling permeated from behind her. Her friends. Atticus’ gray eyes turned towards the sound and he chuckled along with them, “Forgive me, I’m a bit forward, too much to drink.”

Atticus bowed his head slightly, excusing himself before squeezing between the flock of drunken bimbos into the throng of undulating bodies of sweat and hormones. Ugh. This valley was filled with nothing but jaded sycophants craving just a droplet of attention and affection for fake accolades. It used to be so much more. Once upon a time. Atticus sighed and began the long trek of excusing himself through the crowd towards the bar. While the distance wasn’t that lengthy, with the noise and constant attraction for the gothic look he donned, it took nearly ten minutes and four ass-grabs to wade through the crowd of thumping music. He arrived at the bar already exasperated, Atticus put both of his palms on the sticky bar and immediately regretted his hasty decision. He kept them there as, he’d learned many years ago that for whatever reason a bartender couldn’t ignore such a move—maybe something about the bravado it took to actually touch the bar itself—and moments later one of the busy bartenders pulled a glass in front of Atticus awaiting his drink order.

Atticus waved away the glass and yelled over the din “I’m looking for Paul.”

“Everyone is looking for Paul.” The bartender yelled back with a shake of his head.

“Yea well, not everyone knows about the skeletons in the freezer either, or the gold coins in the register but here we are.” Atticus earned several strange glances from neighboring party goers, but he dutifully ignored them.

Something flashed in the bartender’s eyes that Atticus couldn’t quite make out. Insult? Curiosity? Confusion? Rage? Ahh, there it was, it flashed again, realization. Human pupils quickly changed into slits and back again, the true form of whatever the bartender was couldn’t quite contain itself. Somehow, Atticus was a threat. He couldn’t quite tell what kind of creature the bartender was, but he wasn’t human. It would make sense that someone of nefarious deeds would surround itself with creatures that could protect it, but a dragon needing protection seemed a bit overkill.

“So, are you going to get Paul?” Atticus pressed the bartender.

The bartender glared before he broodily walked away, hopefully to get Paul. While Atticus waited, he thought about all of the different kinds of creatures in the world with slit pupils. Cats, usually, but there hadn’t been any cat shifters in the Americas since the Aztecs sacrificed them to their Gods to near extinction—the complete polar opposite of what the Egyptians had done. He didn’t know much about dragons, but he doubted a dragon would put itself in a serving position rather than a hoarding one.

Atticus sat concerned he had been forgotten, when abruptly he was yoked from his stool before being dropped heavily onto the ground.

“Paul would like you to leave” the bouncer growled.

“Okay…” Atticus grunted as he slowly climbed to his feet, “Paul wants to play it the hard way?”

The bouncer cracked his knuckles in reply, interpreting Atticus’s current appearance for weakness. He was easily six-foot-three with a shiny bald head and wide shoulders that screamed ‘I don’t do leg day.’ The typical man who subscribed to ‘We Bounce’ and said things like ‘Muy Thai is the best sport on the planet’ without actually knowing how to name any other sport on the planet.

Atticus brushed himself off from pants to shirt, stalling for time as he assessed his current situation. It was one bouncer and many on-lookers. How far was he willling to go to risk exposing what he was? Sure, supernaturals weren’t a secret anymore but they weren’t understood, respected nor did they have many rights. Especially his kind, with their ability to manipulate feeble minds of lesser races to suit their needs. Humanity’s ability to accuse his race of a crime was nearly impossible and it terrified Man. . Thankfully, he’d come prepared to fight dragons, so a human bouncer wasn’t about to stop him from getting his answers about his sister.

“Fuck it.” He yanked on the power he’d borrowed. The shadows darkened across the nightclub and the sound dampened to a near-silent thrum, as it sucked out all the energy in the room. Borrowed magic was weaker than his own, but it served a purpose. He pulled on the shadows he gathered and every supernatural in the club buckled. A gasp permeated the strange lack of noise from the humans who hadn’t realized just how close they were to danger. When Atticus had gathered enough energy he shivered and every supernatural life line connected to him fell to the ground unconscious. This reflection of Atticus grew pallid with the expulsion as he gazed at his handy work. Every human immediately scrambled for the exits and yet somehow… the damn bouncer remained. Fun. Not supernatural, and worse, not afraid of anything Atticus had just accomplished.

He'd used too much of his energy on the one blast, he’d hoped it would be enough to incapacitate even the dragon. Atticus had gravely miscalculated the courage money gave humans. Before he could begin to formulate a plan B, the bouncer shoved his fist right into Atticus’ face. Time seemed to slow, as it often did in moments of his own panic. He could feel his blood rush into the panic that would come. He could imagine the wet dribble of blood from his nose. But it came rushing into reality when pain exploded beneath his eyes, and darkness greet him lovingly.

“What the fuck are they doing here?” An unfamiliar voice seared through the ringing in Atticus’ head as he regained consciousness. If something like a punch put him down, there was no way he should have been awake yet. His healing factor must have been unaffected by his spent energy. That was lucky. His face stung from where the bouncer had smashed his cheekbone. The scene of the bouncer slowly played back through the sludge of his memory. A fist with something metal broached his face. Brass knuckles. Had to be iron. He had been expected, or rather, anticipated. Somehow.

“He didn’t say.” Another voice, dumber, slower, replied. The bouncer?

“Of course he didn’t fucking say, you fumbling idiot. You knocked his clock before he could say anything," The sound of skin slapping skin shrieked in Atticus’ ears like a harpy, forcing his eyes open to see what kind of assailant was coming now. Just one man smacking the other across the head. Although open, his eyes were unfocused, the pain was excruciating. It took what little energy he had to left to remain semi-conscious.

While his captors were busy, Atticus methodically took an inventory of himself, what worked and what didn’t. His magic was spent outside his healing factor; he’d known borrowing shadow magic would drain him, it was the opposite of his own element. But this emptiness was more than that. His magic was inaccessible. His face wasn’t the only part of him burning. Iron shackles twisted around his wrists and ankles, rendering him incapacitated and defenseless. Great, this is how I die. Rescuing my older sister. This is stupid.

“I told you to make it so he can talk, not to beat him to a pulp.”

“But Cap’n Paul—”

“Shut up, Glenn. You fucked up. Get out of here before I fuck you up. Count your blessings you’re my wife’s brother or you’d be in the freezer!” snarled Paul before he finally turned his attention towards Atticus.

Atticus blinked up blearily at the figure that came into view. Ugly bastard, with a square jaw, butt chin and eyes so wideset Atticus briefly wondered if he could see in stereo. Wisely, he kept his mouth shut, more out of the fact he was unsure if he could make any noise with his head ringing.

“Hey.” Paul shoved Atticus' shoulder, causing his head to loll in his slumped position. Atticus groaned in response, “You tell Sasha, this was a warning, okay? Next time I send you back in pieces and she better hope you’re one of the lucky ones that can put their parts back together, eh?”

Paul began to unshackle the iron chains from the chair itself, making sure to diligently keep Atticus’ body wrapped in as much iron as possible. He didn’t know who Sasha was, so clearly Paul here had some sort of problem with the local witches… or Fae.

“Clotho.” Atticus managed to mumble, saliva dripped from lips that refused to work right. Forming thoughts was like walking through mud. He hoped with everything in his body that his head would clear before it was too late. Paul paused and his brow furrowed. He moved away from the chains and placed himself in front of Atticus.

“What do you know about Clotho?” Paul asked suspiciously.. The dragon held up Atticus’ head with calloused hands, “Where did you hear that name?” When Atticus didn’t answer fast enough, Paul shook him roughly, eliciting a groan of agony, “Tell me. Where?”

Atticicus couldn’t answer even if he wanted to. Frustrated, Paul let go of his head and backed up. The dragon breathed in deeply, which made Atticus’ mind wander to breathing fire, but instead the dragon clapped his hands. The room reverberated with energy, accompanied yet again by a painful mourn from Atticus. Golden light weaved between Paul’s hands. Atticus could see droplets of sweat forming. It looked warm to the touch and lit the room as it grew larger and larger into a bright ball. Paul stopped pouring energy into the ball and let it go. It floated for a moment before slowly making its way to Atticus.

He didn’t know why, but he didn’t want that light touching him. The golden light washed over him, Atticus instantly felt better despite the burning of iron still clamped tightly around his wrists and ankles. The swelling abated, the fog slowly lifted, and thought returned. Atticus’ vision finally cleared and he took in his new surroundings curiously.

They weren’t in the club anymore. Or at least not the traditional visible parts of a night club. He couldn’t hear thumping music or the sound of screams as people fled. Maybe a back room? Or perhaps Paul had taken him to another location completely. Paul cleared his throat and their eyes met. The initial glimpse of the dragon Atticus had managed through his delirium didn’t do the amount of ugly justice.

Paul held the form of a middle-aged man, slightly balding at the widow’s peak with dark brown hair combed to the side in an attempt to hide it. He was short with a pudgy belly. He was not an imposing figure. Though Atticus also hadn’t expected any self-respecting dragon that named themselves Paul would be. He was truly beginning to question his understanding of supernatural fauna.

Atticus blinked.

“You cost me a lot of money tonight with that stunt you pulled. I thought Sasha sent you…” Paul paused, considering exactly what to reveal, “I thought, to send me a warning. But you’re speaking names that you shouldn’t know.”

“Who? Me?” Atticus replied with a tired mischievous smile. He still had no access to his power, though he felt better it also made him feel incomplete, alone in the world. He had to buy time to figure out a way to escape, “Couldn’t be.”

“Clotho. You said, Clotho.” Paul demanded.

“Did I? Are you sure you didn’t mishear me?” Atticus wasn’t about to give in to the desires of a dragon. Pretentious bastards, the lot of them.

“How do you know about her?” Paul growled, his frustration evident.

“The question is not how do I know about her… but instead what are you doing to bring her back from the Other side.” Atticus said nonchalantly, “Do you have any water?”

Paul gaped. Atticus knew why. There were very few creatures who knew Clotho’s powers over the shadows and darkness that weaved between the time streams. It was but a piece of the borrowed power that Atticus had drawn from, long forgotten magics stored in secret places that only Atticus knew how to access. Unfortunately, those places never contained straight lines to his sister. They always came up short or cut off. But they did provide for ancient power when needed.

Paul produced a cup of water from some place Atticus hadn’t noticed and held it up to the dehydrated man’s lips. Atticus fumbled with the edge of the cup and several drops dripped onto his lap, but the man was thankful for what he’d asked for and didn’t complain.

“Let’s start over,” Paul began again, “who are you?”

“You can call me Atticus.” He replied.

“Atticus, how do you know about Clotho?” Paul repeated.

“You’re asking the wrong questions.”

That was clearly the wrong answer, because exasperated Paul slapped him across his face. Atticus flinched slightly but pulled himself back from the light sting, no more iron, no additional pain.

“Ow, that’s not very nice Paul, weren’t dragons taught not to hit their new friends?” Atticus flexed his jaw, testing the damage.

“Start talking or I’m throwing you in the freezer.” Paul wasn’t amused.

“Lake, freezer. Healing magics. You must be a water hybrid.” The lower class of dragons. He’d already known that though, purebred dragons didn’t often take human form or allow themselves around humans—something about how they smelled, he didn’t know—but the fact that Paul looked the way he did in human form, and ran a nightclub in downtown San Fernando meant he wasn’t of the elite of his breed.

“Okay, you know what, I don’t care. Either you’re here to blackmail me or… or something, but it doesn’t matter. ” Paul took a rag from the nearest table and shoved it deep into Atticus’ throat, he gagged but before he could spit it out, Paul was wrapping something else around his head. “No. No, you’re done talking. You’re not going to get close to Clotho.”

Paul was clearly erratic, Atticus had struck a nerve, but he didn’t know which one. Paul was trying to protect his sister? How did she need protecting? She was trapped! Atticus screamed against the gag. He’d talk! He’d talk!

The dragon easily hauled Atticus to his feet, even though the iron rendered Atticus nearly immovable by his own volition. Atticus couldn’t kick against being dragged out the nearest door, but he continued to scream. The smell of salt hit his senses between intakes of breath, the beach. It was night time still, and quiet. The sound of crashing waves wafting on the sand would normally have been soothing.

The nearest beach was likely Malibu, but finding an unpopulated area of Malibu would have to be difficult. The nightclub had been in the center of the Valley, which meant he’d been unconscious for longer than he thought. Atticus wracked his brain. What could he do?

The clacking of wood boards scratched as Atticus was forcefully dragged down them towards the end of the pier. There was no more hesitation, Paul simply hurled Atticus as far as he could throw him. With the length of the pier and dragon strength—even if he was a hybrid-- that was at least thirty feet off the coast of California. That was it. He was a goner.

Atticus struggled to gain purchase as he sank with iron chains wrapped around him. He tried again to access some sliver of his power. Nothingness greeted him. The cloth held tightly over his mouth and kept him from gasping at oxygen for his burning lungs. He descended slowly at first, but as air escaped his clothing he sank faster and faster until he hit the sandy bottom.

He pulled and twisted his wrists and legs, the metal bit into his flesh. His vision was impaired by the floating sand, but he swore he saw sharks circling in curiosity or by the scent of his blood. It wasn’t long before black blurred his limited twilight vision and then only seconds before there was nothing.