Free Dracul by Finley Aaron

to unzip my coat.
    If he pulls my coat off, the backpack will go with it.
    That’s it. I have no choice.
    I blow a blast of fire that sends the cloud of bats screeching away from inches in front of my face. I turn my head to aim the flames at my attacker, but he just sort of leans away from the worst of it (he’s got the straps stretched far enough he can do that now, pulling several feet away from my face without letting go of my bag, though he at least lets go of my now-unzipped coat). And maybe his ski mask is fireproof, or something, because it doesn’t seem to melt or burn or anything.
    Fireproof vampires?
    My worst nightmares have nothing on this.
    At least now, the guy is in kicking range.
    I whip my left leg around in an outer crescent kick even as I pivot in that direction.
    The guy ducks, but I hit him with a series of inverted round kicks alternating intermittently with regular round kicks, which seem to both confuse him and give him a taste of my shoe leather.
    Is he seriously trying to bite my boot? It’s kind of hard to see with bats swooping around my head everywhere.
    “Creepo, you’ve got freakish taste,” I observe aloud, but he’s starting to lean in too close for me to kick him effectively again, so I follow up my words with another blast of fire, which is long overdue because the bats were getting way too close for my comfort. I don’t think any of them touched me, but I’m a tad distracted right now, so I can’t say for sure.
    I switch legs, taking care to keep my jeans away from the flames (note to self: maybe look into fire-proof pants—can’t let the enemy have every advantage). I whip a couple of kicks toward his face before I notice the bag and my coat are slipping from my shoulders.
    Between his strap-tugging and coat-unzipping, he’s got the straps loose enough to pry the bag free.
    I blow another furious blast at his face, but this time, as he ducks away, he takes my bag with him, ducking and rolling across the snow with the bag held tight to his chest.
    I lunge toward him, only to fall flat on my face on a sheet of wet ice.
    Oh no, I didn’t.
    I did.
    My fiery breath melted enough of the abundant snow that it puddled all around me, and is quickly freezing up again in the frigid winter evening, fanned by the wings of dozens of low-swooping bats.
    You know what? Come to think of it, I really don’t like bats.
    I scramble to my feet in time to see my attacker roll free of the ice, spring to his feet, and start running away with my backpack.

Chapter Seven
     
    No, no, no, no, no!
    I can’t let him get away with everything in my bag.
    My wallet. My ID. The contact info on my phone that would lead him to every dragon I know, including the babies.
    Flameproof vampires cannot be allowed to find my niece and nephew.
    I don’t care who sees me.
    Thankfully, I long ago perfected the art of changing only parts of myself into dragon form. My coat is dangling loose on my arms, so I fling it off as my wings rip through my shirt and beat down once, launching me past the bats and after my bag.
    The guy has one arm through one backpack strap, and he’s trying to slip the other arm through the other strap as he runs.
    I swoop low, grab the bag, and lift off into the sky. I’m trying to get away with my bag, but the dude is dangling by one arm, looped through one strap. I shake him hard enough to rattle every bone in his body, but he doesn’t let go.
    Meanwhile, the longer I’m airborne and the higher I fly, the greater the chance I’ll be seen.
    Can’t risk that.
    These were great gloves while they lasted, but the claws are coming out.
    Five long talons sprout through the leather at my fingertips. I hold the bag tight in my left (normal) hand, and slash at the strap with my right (clawed) hand.
    But even as I do so, the man tugs the bag against his chest and rolls in the sky, so I manage only to slash open the front of my bag.
    I can see my phone and my wallet inside the slashed-open outer