What little girls are made of.

Not all families are unicorns and rainbows, some are just fire and flame.

From a crack in the dark cave’s rocky canopy, warm early morning light streamed onto Carol’s dark grey scales. She circled herself to be in the best position possible, ensuring every last bone-drenching ray of warmth was caught.

Admittedly, it would be easier to fit the cave’s limited space if she changed form, but then who wants to be the fool who paints a target on their back and runs out onto the middle of a battlefield shouting, “Nah-nee, Nah-nee, Nah, Nah!”

Carol was no fool. She was a mother, and that relationship was battlefield enough. Even here in the depths of her lonely forest, with her old memories still fresh, Carol remained on guard in case the battle came looking for her.

The Grand Dame Dragon looked at her talon-less claws; a bitter smirk grew across her scared maw. 'Oh no...', thought Carol; she had won the last fight but had most definitely not escaped her daughter unscathed; 'Anna has her pound of flesh!'

Even for dragons, some wounds can't be healed. Sometimes a relationship is so toxic and dangerous, the only choice is to walk away, promising yourself never to go back and then… survive.

Closing her eyes, ready for much-needed rest, the last thought danced through the Grand Dame’s mind.'Walk away and survive.' That is precisely what Carol had done; she survived to spite her daughter.

The sound of bushes rustling outside made its way lazily into the cave, catching Carol's twitching ear’s attention. As the out-of-place noise sauntered by, its unusualness encouraged Carol to open one dark pupiled eye ever so slightly.

“Mumma!” a young child’s high-pitched wail echoed through the forests usual early morning din.

“Oh, Dear”, mumbled Carol, unravelling from her hiding place, “I thought I’d have longer.”

Mary Drytt was not poor by any stretch of the imagination, but she was a single mother, and that made life hard. Actually, she liked to think she was single, and she told all the bar’s customers she was, but it wasn’t true. Unfortunately, she was married to Jo. And that really made her life hard.

Her husband, according to Mary, was nothing more than a dreamer who spent his life tinkering away in his back shed.

Well, since the dragons came and the original shed had burned down, it was now more of a sandbag bunker than a shed; but he was still there at all hours of the day and night.

Sometimes the only way she knew her husband was alive was when Jo got his fingers caught in his latest invention, causing him to yell, scream or swear loud enough to wake her and the neighbourhood up.

His family’s abandonment wasn’t the worst of it. Jo was completely and utterly obsessed with dragons.

Dragons were not of this world, and as a non-practising ‘Whispering Monk’ devotee, Mary knew the magical reptiles were sinful, wicked and therefore, should be shunned. Look at all the damage the big dragons had done to Bone Valley! Burnt the once-thriving city to a cinder, ate its poor citizens and stole anything shiny.

Evil, pure and utter evil; and just her bad luck to be married to Jo, who had recently joined a club where every time a big dragon was spotted over the city, the members would run after it taking pictures, measurements or plaster casts of claw marks. She’d told Jo he was stupid and nothing more than a wagon train spotter. He had made some excuse as to why their scientific stuff was so important. Mary didn’t care because even against her better judgement and a whole lot of silent treatment, Jo had gone ahead and bought four little dragons for their home!

The latest one was for the kitchen; apparently, it would make her life easier. How that was supposed to work, she didn’t know; it kept eating the kitchen sponges and burped at the cat so often, poor Mr Whiskers was now partially bald on his hind quarters.

The other three dragons worked with Jo as a team of furnaces. Big, Middle and Little, ‘The Flame Brothers’. That’s what he called them. Only the best for those three monsters. They all cost an arm and a leg. Money Mary could have spent ten times over on something she wanted. But they had come to an agreement after one particularly nasty fight. Mary would begin to build her singing career, and as long as Jo kept the money coming in, she would ignore the dragons.

He had to provide enough for food and rent, a holiday to the Big Ocean, Mary’s spending money and enough to send Conny to daycare three days a week. That mattered because when Conny was being cared for and Jo was in his bunker, Mary worked at Mr Cantante’s public hotel and sang to her adoring fans. Well, fan. Actually, a customer who was too drunk to leave. And hotel was pushing it a bit far. It was more of a dug-out hole in the ground with a bar made from wooden boxes, carpet-covered boxes for a stage and barrelled beer served at tables… made from cardboard tubes and old street signs.

But none of that mattered; Mary knew she’d make it big one day.

“Conny, I don’t hear you getting ready. Get ya bag out here; I’ve packed your pail; it’s time for daycare; Mummy’s got to go to work!” Mary checked her new lipstick in her new pretty pink bag. The one she’d matched with her costume at ‘work’. “Conny, I swear, child, if you’re not in front of me in 5 seconds with ya clothes on and ya bag on ya back, you’re gonna feel my hand!”

Halfway through applying the new shade, Mary paused and stared at her reflection in the little mirror hung on the back of the kitchen door.

It was quiet… too quiet.

She may not have been the ‘Mother of the Year’, but Mary certainly wasn’t ‘Worst Mother of the Year’ either.

“Conny?”

Nothing but Smeg, the oven dragon’s breathing filled the house, rasping in, whistling out. His blue-green scaled chest rose and fell in a deep, slumbered rhythm.

Children are not quiet creatures; they are loud and noisy and fill the available space. When they’re up to something, they become discreet and secretive, which creates its own type of sound. What Mary found herself hearing was the terrifying noise of …nothing! She bent back to look up the passageway; her daughter’s doorway curtain billowed in and out from an out-of-place breeze.

Dread wrapped its anxious wings around Mary’s hammering heart. Softly “Conny?” was hesitantly whispered as the treasured purse dropped to the floor in front of Smeg, making one of his red eyes open. “Conny, baby. I’m not cross, promise.”

Walking up the narrow passageway that led past her and Jo’s room and towards Conny’s, felt like Mary’s own personal walk to the gallows. She watched the pink curtain’s movement with tear-filled eyes, a scream boiling in her throat, building up in moans and denials, waiting for its inevitable release.

Like everyone else in Bone Valley, Mary and Jo’s house had burnt down when the first big dragon crawled through the witch’s portal. It was then that Jo developed his sandbag method of building, so at least they were better than those who lived in underground holes. Mary’s family was one of the few in their neighbourhood to live above ground. She had taken great pride in her home having three windows. But now, her pride had fallen away; now, she would have given anything to live underground with everyone else.

The pink sheet with the little red printed roses resisted Mary’s first attempt to catch it.

Jo had finally finished. It had been tricky, fiddly and annoying. But the Dragon Alumni needed a machine to tether a big dragon to the earth, and he had finally perfected the device. It meant they now would have the upper hand, whether Mother Harper liked it or not! She’d been warned. Either fix the dragon problem, or we will! Anna Harper had smiled her smile then the Alumni had left feeling under threat.

He sat back and admired the mechanics. It took a moment or two and a raised eyebrow for his brain to register a sound that crept, muffled and disturbing into his bunker. “Mary?”

The sand bunker’s self-made wooden door slammed and ricocheted silently onto its frame of sandbags. Barrelling his way up the garden path, Jo ducked under the empty washing line and hurtled into the open kitchen.

“Mary?” echoed around the deserted hearth; the loud panicked mewing of Smeg, the once-slumbering dragon, was drowned out by the sound of broken heartache filling the house with its dreadful wails. Jo, a big man, took three steps up the narrow passageway.

The pink rosebud sheet tore too easily in his hand. “Mary, what’s...” Before the question had time to breathe, it died upon the inventor's lips.

His little girl’s room held only splintered wooden furniture, a crumpled iron-framed bed and three walls. Jo looked out onto their neighbour’s earthen roof. Everywhere amongst the strewn sandbags and mud, large reptile footprints abounded. Deep talon scratches were still evident in the sliced-open earth. Conny’s fourth-bedroom wall was nothing more than a gaping wound.

“Jo, Jo.” Mary's shrieked wide-mouthed. “A dragon Jo. It was a dragon.”

Constance was near tears. It was just dreadful, completely, totally, and utterly dreadful. And to make matters worse… Mother Harper was being really friendly, which frightened the young witch to her core.

It wasn’t her fault that Beatrix, her boyfriend and his weird ‘friends’ had killed the yellow dragon last night. The way Constance saw it, it was totally unfair for her to shoulder any of the blame; she wasn’t even there when it happened. Well… as far as everybody was aware. Well… as far as Mother Harper was aware.

The doors to Mother Harper’s office remained closed whilst the young witch stood lost in deep thought, leaning on one of the towering ornate portals anxiously chewing her nails. At three am this morning, she’d been pulled out of her cot and requested to stand on guard. Mother Harper wasn’t to be disturbed. Well, what had actually been said was, “Constance, if those doors open before I tell you to, I’ll nail your feet to your cross on the floor and you’ll stay there for a week!” Mother Harper had then smiled and patted Constance on the head. She only did that when she was furious!

Constance just hoped Mother Harper would be back by the time Beatrix arrived; she certainly didn’t want to have to speak to that jumped-up little witch.

“Beatrix shouldn’t even be allowed in the building little on into Mother Harper’s office.” Droning to herself, Constance continued her muttered diatribe. “Coming up with her stupid idea of bricking up the dragon’s portal. Pffft!” The young witch snorted, then thought a little more on the bitter subject. “If I’d said that, I would have had a brick shoved down my throat! And, begging ya pardon, I would have had to go find the brick first!”

It was no use; there wasn’t enough nail left on either hand, so both arms were folded across Constance’s amble bosom as her sulky mood brewed into a winter’s storm. “Mother Harper never has a bad word to say about Beatrix. Not one tiny word.”

A spiteful sneer grew on the chubby face of the young witch. Today was going to be different. Very different. Today Constance could stand back and watch someone else get roasted for a change. Hopefully, Beatrix would be ordered to buy paint out of her own money, be forced to paint a big fat cross on Mother Harper’s Office floor, and have her foot nailed to it!

Constance giggled; if all her dreams come true, today would be a wonderful day.

Many things can be said about Bone Valley. It smelt. It was burnt. It had an oversupply of charcoal. Furthermore, if you asked the neighbours of Bone Valley to describe its inhabitants, they simply would have said, “They’re a bit… well, you know, nice but strange! And wouldn’t you be if your city burnt down and you were all forced to live in underground holes to survive?”

Apart from all these truths, one of the most important things said about the small rural city was, news travels fast! (You find that lines of communication tend to be very strong and open once big dragons turn up.)

It took less than half an hour for the Drytt’s surrounding neighbourhoods to spread the word that a dragon had taken a child; then, by 9:35 am, not only had every business in the city shut up shop, every school had closed its doors; the whole populace including the cat’s, dogs, horses and cows had gone underground. Under their fireproof rooves of the earthen-covered homes. Anyone above ground was not in the “loop” and was at severe risk of being BBQed.

Mother Harper though, knew the news well before most others.

“It’s awfully quiet, isn’t it!” Zorro felt somewhat uncomfortable at the lack of people as he sat beside Torren in the cart’s passenger seat. The main street was eerily empty, considering it was only 9:45, comparatively early.

“Mmmm.” Torren had noticed the distinct lack of society since they had left his garage, but now that the werewolf pointed it out, he felt somewhat relieved he wasn’t paranoid.

From within the dark walnut coffin, which rested on the cart’s tray, its occupant’s muffled voice could be heard. “What’s going on? Stop mumbling. Tell me what’s going on!”

“Nothing, that’s the problem. There’s no one on the street.” Zorro leaned closer to Torren and whispered, “Just the way I like it. People freak me out.”

Torren, the young dragon night-cart man, couldn’t stop himself before his thoughts burst out of his mouth, “You’re a six foot seven, really hairy agoraphobic werewolf who can only go out of his home if he’s wearing a little white pony onesie… and people freak you out!”

As he patted his white and rainbow onesie, Zorro smiled widely, showing off his abnormally large K-9s. “It’s all soft, warm and cuddly and makes me feel happy inside.” He leaned back on the seat’s backrest, stretching his arm behind Torren.

“You don’t have anything on underneath, do you?”

“No. No, I don’t, comrade. You should try it sometime.” Zorro smiled and absorbed as much of the bright mid-morning sunlight as he could.

The coffin spoke once more. “I don’t like the sounds of this. Why are the streets empty? It’s very odd and strange.”

Odd and strange ran around Torren’s mind. He thought it odd and strange that he couldn’t wait to get to Mother Harper’s office, a place he normally avoided. But at least he would see Beatrix, and she at least was sane and relatively normal.

The fact that last night Beatrix had been a bit power drunk from doing magic for the first time and during her afterglow kissed him, had nothing to do with looking forwards to seeing her. Not one tiny bit. Not even a smidge. …Well, maybe just a little smug.

Beatrix, thought Torren, was normal.

Well, a lot more normal than the vampire and werewolf.

And a HELL of a LOT MORE NORMAL than Sir Richard.

She was probably the most normal person Torren knew.

“That’s not normal!” Beatrix pulled her sleeve down over her right hand; nervous blue eyes looked around the street, making sure no one had heard her. Nope, she was okay. No one was on the street.

The black sleeve of her junior witch’s dress was pulled up, revealing a single golden scale on the back of her hand. It resisted removal as Beatrix scratched away at it. After closer inspection, it proved to be entirely welded to her skin.

“What ho pretty lady.”

Beatrix shoved her sleeve back down and swung her arms behind her.

“I’m delightfully glad you agreed to meet me for coffee and cake this morning.” Sir Richard bounded along the street in his pure white tailored suit and silver cane. His bowler hat matched the colour and cloth of the tailored outfit perfectly. “

“Oh please…” Beatrix checked her sleeve, ensuring it covered the scale. “We’re not having coffee or cake, Richard; we’re going to see my boss and explain how and why we killed a big dragon.”

“What ho, yes dreadfully frightful business. Let’s us not speak of that awful horror again.” Sir Richard smiled and pushed his hat with his canes silver knob to a jaunty angle, “Well then, drinks afterwards?”

“Richard!” Beatrix took a deep, cleansing breath, “We killed a dragon. Once the other dragons find out, they will probably want a little bit of revenge, which might include wanting the five of us stuck on a large pole, so we resemble a human kebab. So, no, Richard. No coffee, cake or drinks. We have bigger issues to worry about.”

“Shame, maybe dinner next week then, what ho?”

“Explain once again how you killed Amarilla Los Hambrientos, hmm?” Mother Harper sat behind her magnificent gold gilt ornate desk and stared at the nervous group lined up before her.

“Well, Mother Harper,” Beatrix took a deep breath and curtsied nervously, she was first in line, and they’d agreed she would do all the talking. “As I explained, she really gave us no choice. It was either her or Torren and that kind of ignited my magic! I stunned her with a bolt of lightning, which turned her back into a woman. Zorro pounced on her and held her down with his full body weight. The dragon was taken by surprise because he looked quite harmless in his unicorn costume.”

Mother Harper raised an eyebrow at the werewolf who held Torren’s hand and waved nervously back.

“Anyway,” Beatrix continued, “Sangre, being a vampire, looked into her eyes and took control of her mind calming her so we could begin to tie her hands.”

“You’re my chef!” stated the surprised Head Witch.

“Yes!” Answer Sangre in a monotone response.

“You keep presenting me with ridiculous vegan meat substitutes!”

“Yes.” Answer Sangre proudly.

“Why? You’re a vampire….” Mother Heggerty’s eyebrow raised higher.

“I have a blood phobia.”

The witch's cackle echoed mercilessly around the room.

Clearing her throat, Beatrix wrestled back control over the careening events. “We thought everything was fine until Richard sneezed and tripped over an old-aged pensioner who’d been following the yellow dragon for entertainment and is now unhappily back in his retirement village. Richard tried to gain his balance, but the cream Mother Heggerty had made for his scolded bottom acquired from drinking something that didn’t belong to him hadn’t actually kicked in properly.”

Mother Harper rolled her eyes.

“So, he staggered into Sangre, who broke his eye contact with the dragon. This resulted in the dragon lady breaking free of Zorro and attacking Torren for a second time, who, by no fault of his own, whilst defending his virtue and consequently his life… accidentally stabbed her with a broken piece of glass. We tried to save her, but she exploded before we could do anything.” Beatrix grinned nervously as in her peripheral eye-line she watched the four others recount her story back in their heads, ticking away every step.

Sir Richard added miserably, “Guts went everywhere! It was like standing in a shower of meat rain. Totally gross. It got into every crack and crevice imaginable what ho.”

Beatrix smiled and curtsied again.

“Interesting.” Mother Harper smirked back at the nervous crew but seemed totally absorbed by Torrens’s every movement. That somehow annoyed Beatrix quite deeply.

Without warning Mother Harper slipped out from behind her gilt desk; her well-tailored dress clinging to every curve emphasising her enate raw sexuality.

Beatrix looked down at her second-hand black hooped dress and a patched midnight cloak. A blush crept out from under her collar.

“Would you like me to call the executioner Mother Harper?” Constance failed in trying to hide her wide grin behind her notebook. “I know he normally has his lunch at this time, but I’m sure he’d put his cheese sandwich to….”

“Oh, do be quiet, Constance. Go and stand on your cross, your breathing interferes with my train of thought.” Mother Harper swayed towards the blushing Torren, her black high heels emphasising her long legs. “I bet,” she simpered as a brown curl was swept off the young man’s forehead, “being sexually ravaged and then eaten feet first by a cheap and tacky sex-crazed yellow dragon was not the way you expected to end your life?”

Young Constance’s eyes watered, as she waddled past Beatrix and her stupid friends on the way to stand on her thick black cross painted on the highly polished floor; a daggered glare was thrown at her nemesis. “Proper witches don’t have boyfriends”, snuck out from between gritted teeth.

Before she could restrain herself, Beatrix burned back sweetly, “Is it true you had to buy the paint for the cross yourself?”

Constance stomped off to the office corner and stood on the fat black cross on the floor facing the wall mumbling under her breath, “You think you so clever, Beatrix, but you wait. You’ll burn, and I’ll be there to watch.”

Mother Harper laughed so delicately it sent a shiver up all the spines of every male in the room. “Oh, I do love healthy competition. Don’t you, Mr Torren?” She ran a long red fingernail over his jawline and flicked a quick look at Beatrix. “Do you know what strength it takes to kill a dragon, you delicious little man?”

Torren’s swallow caused an echo in the room. “No.”

“Well, I do, and I think you’re destined for greatness.” Mother Harper pulled the platinum pin, which kept her blond locks in place. Her golden tresses fell sweepingly down onto her shoulders.

Again, a swallowed echo reverberated across the room.

Mother Harper pressed herself against Torren, who held the leering Zorros hand up to his chin for protection. The lustful witch whispered into his ear, “In fact, I have a little job for you that’s quite pressing.” Her lips caressed his ear.

Beatrix lent forwards, looking down the line. Her piercing and angry blue eyes caught Torrens’s terrified gaze. The poor boy was now trapped between a rock and a hard place.

“I’ve decided!” Mother Harper clapped her hands and pinched Torren on his bottom as she turned and walked back to her desk. “You’ll go to the Really Big Mountains and hunt down and kill the Grand Dragon, who just today clawed a child right out of her bedroom. Bring her head to me, and all will be forgiven.”

“The kids or the dragons?” Zorro turned to the quivering Torren for clarification. But all the young man could do was continue to swallow loudly and fan himself quickly with his free hand.

Sangre breathed softly, “And if we don’t?”

The Head Witch lent seductively back on her desk and let out a cackle worthy of any nightmare.

Zorro was becoming really annoying.

“Please let go of my hand.” For the umpteenth time, Torren pulled his hand free from the werewolf’s pawing grip. “People will talk.”

“If you’re not going to hold my hand, then we need to stop so I can put on my unicorn costume; the onesie just isn’t cutting it.”

Torren sighed then raised his arm as the six-foot-seven hairy beast of a man smiled broadly ensconcing his new friend's hand once more into his firm grip.

“Oh, Gods, I hate being here.” Moaned Sangre. “We’d better not see anyone I know.”

“What ho dear Chef, in which restaurant did you work?” Sir Richard’s new silver armour shone brightly under the moonlight.

“You know that big grey gloomy castle on top of the ridge a mile back.”

“Yes.” Nodded Sir Richard, “The one I said looks like it belonged to the devil himself and his demonic out-cast spawn?”

“Yes.” Sighed Sangre, “That’s my father’s castle where I was raised.”

Sir Richard dropped his sword and then quickly picked it up again. “Oh… It probably looks much nicer in the daylight.”

Beatrix raised her hand and pulled everyone to a halt. “We’re close. Everyone be really quiet.”

“Why?” echoed around the trees near them.

“Well,” snorted Beatrix, “I kinda think that’s obvious, don’t you?” She turned from the pitch-black forest to face the crew. “We don’t want some ruddy great dragon knowing we’ve been sent to kill her. We want the element of surprise on our side.”

Torren took a step closer to Zorro, who raised his white unicorn onesie arm to point to something behind Beatrix.

“I mean, we’d be pretty stupid to rock up to the dragon and say, ‘Hey could you roll over and die so we don’t have to! Mother Harper’s a real bitch, but she’s a real powerful one. So please do us a favour and fall onto Torren’s ‘Monk Glass’ knife.”

Sir Richard waved a pointed finger at Beatrix, then held Sangre’s hand to his heart, making the poor vampire blush. “What ho dear lady, but I think we’ve lost our element of surprise.”

An amused chortle rang out into the dark forest. “Yes, you have; about half an hour ago, when you all landed in the clearing down at the bottom of the hill and you all started to complain about how brooms really suck as a method of transport. I laughed when the silver canned meat asked little miss witch to rub some more of Mother Heggerty’s cream on to numb his swollen sausage and two veg. How is Audrey Heggerty, by the way? Lovely witch.” A vast grey head slid out from the dark shadows, “Mind you; I had to try hard not to give it away when the big tall hairy fellow started to sing about yellow-bricked roads.”

“Singing calms me,” Zorro announced quietly.

Beatrix turned to see the Grand Dame Dragon raise her head out of the darkness and tower over the crew. “I must stay, though; the one who’s holding the hairy unicorn’s hand smells very sexy. I bet Anna found it really hard sending him up here and not gobble him down in one go.”

“Mother Harper sent us here.” Beatrix stood transfixed.

“Yes, I know. Probably to kill me for taking this little babe from her bed.”

Conny toddled out from under the dragon’s dark-grey chest. She was wrapped in a warm golden blanket and quietly drank from a silver sippy cup.

“You stole the babe from her home!”

The dragon snorted at Beatrix’s silly statement, then nuzzled the child to sit on her right-hand paw. “Of course, I didn’t. Why would I? I don’t belong to Anna’s cult of madness.

“Cult?” Sangre stepped forwards to Beatrix’s side.

“Show me your hand, girl?” asked the Grand Dame.

Beatrix pulled her sleeve down lower. “Why?”

“Oh, dear! Has no one told you how magic works?” Carol lowered her head, so her black eyes looked directly at Beatrix.

“I don’t know what you mean?” The young witch stammered.

“You’ve performed magic. I can smell it on you. Every time a witch performs magic, she adds weight to unbalance her scales.”

Beatrix blushed deeply.

“Every time you perform magic, my girl, you will grow a scale. Until one day, you will transform.”

Torren spoke quietly, dreading the answer, “Into what?”

The dragon laughed, “Into what? Well, a dragon! It’s what all witches become. Then Anna will have a new cult member to manipulate.”

“Beatrix…” Torren whispered as his heart leapt at the sight of the young woman’s sad big blue eyes.

Beatrix stared at Torren’s concerned face, as tears ran down her own, then slowly she pulled up her sleeve to reveal one beautiful golden scale.

“You can’t do any more magic; you’ll turn into a dragon!” Zorro's crumpled a onesie-hooved sleeve to his mouth and hugged Torren with his free arm.

“What’s wrong with being a dragon?”

"You eat and burn people. You take everything and destroy everything. That’s what’s wrong.” Torren pushed Beatrix behind him. “We don’t need dragons.”

A loud laugh rang out around the forest. “Boy, you’ve always had witches, and you’ve always had dragons. We are one. Currently, my daughter Anna is out of control and in control. That’s the issue here. She’ll burn you, beat you, and squish you down until you do her bidding. That’s why she wants me dead.”

“Why would she want that?” asked Sangre quietly.

“Because I am the only one who can help you kill her.”

“Why should we trust you?” Torren wrenched his glass knife from its dragon skin pouch and held it towards Carol. “Why shouldn’t we just kill you and rescue that poor... “he looked at the little girl who was now eating a chocolate biscuit “that, well, looked after a little girl?”

“Because she didn’t take Conny.” Beatrix lent in and pushed Torren’s hand with the glass knife back down. “Look, she has no claws.” The blade was taken and a kiss on Torren’s cheek was given. Beatrix looked to the Grand Dame, “She isn’t the monster. This is the Grandmother Witch, the beginning of us all. The real monster is back in Bone Valley, sitting behind her desk, waiting for us to do her dirty work.”

Torren swam in beautiful blue eyes, “Then we have to stop her!”