Free Fury of Fate: A Dragonfury Short Story by Coreene Callahan

CHAPTER ONE
     
    Love hurt. Evidence of it stood across the street. One hundred feet, two raised voices, and a shitload of annoyance away. Gaze riveted to the couple, Ivar slid deeper into the shadows, and using the narrow alleyway for cover, settled in to watch the show. Listen to it, too. His favorite companion, a bottle of Jim Beam, dangling from his fingertips, he rotated his wrist. Whiskey sloshed against glass, joining the whisper of winter wind as he shook his head.
    Jesus. Humans and their drama.
    It never ended. Witness the fact the female staged the scene in a public place. Right out in the open. Drawing sidelong glances from passersby on a sidewalk in city central. Cheeks flushed, she pointed a slender finger at her companion, accusing him of cheating, telling him this time was the last straw, refusing to take it anymore. Ivar snorted. Right. The last straw. A likely story. Nothing but a big fat lie.
    He could tell by the way she held herself—shoulders hunched beneath her expensive co at instead of squared. Tears in her eyes instead of steely determination. Gloved hand shaking instead of rock steady. Ivar sighed and took another swig of J.B. Beyond disappointing. She should be walking away from the dumbass, but...nah. Her body language was all wrong, 100 percent non-assertive. The raw hitch in her voice, though, was the true tip-off. A real fuck-you to feminism, telling Ivar all he needed to know. The human male had nothing to worry about. His lady love wasn’t going anywhere. She lacked the ingredients required when threatening to leave another.
    Backbone. Bravery. The courage to go it alone.
    Tightening his grip on his buddy in a bottle, Ivar swallowed another mouthful. The whiskey went down smooth. The burn of discontent circling the inside of his chest, however—not so much. Just like the female across the street, he ached with it. Hurt deep down where old wounds festered and new ones never healed. Stifling a snarl, Ivar propped his shoulder against the brick building façade. His eyes narrowed on the squabbling couple. He really should oust the pair.
    Unlock the chains, release his dragon half and...
    Send the lovebirds running for their lives.
    No doubt the smart thing to do. He didn’t, after all, have much time. Too bad compelling the duo with magic—and his special brand of mind control—held little appeal. Odd in more ways than one. Out of character for him too. As a general rule, he enjoyed scaring the hell out of humans. Razing the inferior race equaled big fun. At least, most nights. Tonight, though, didn’t qualify as most . He was tired. So goddamn sick of everyone and everything. Which meant he needed to cross the street and get on with it. Do what he’d flown into Seattle to accomplish. But as he listened to the escalating argument, Ivar couldn’t make himself move.
    Emotional gridlock. Physical lockdown. Mental anguish.
    All were present tonight, keeping his feet glued to cracked pavement. Which left him neck deep in the kind of turmoil he didn’t normally experience, never mind know what to do with. Emotion wasn’t his forte. Until recently, he’d thought himself incapable of feeling anything. Untouchable. Numbed out. Beyond help. A state of grace Ivar knew no longer applied to him. And hadn’t for months. The death of his best friend had seen to that, cracking him wide open. Now he bled sorrow, grieving in ways he didn’t understand and couldn’t shut down.
    Picking at the frayed corner of the bottle label, Ivar frowned. He needed it to stop. Wanted the numbness to return and the hurt to go away. No doubt a childish wish. Life wasn’t simple. Neither was mourning a friend, so...fuck it. Guess pain and suffering was par for the course and his for the duration. Which—yeah—made him want to hammer the humans even more. His gaze ping-ponged between the male and female. Jesus help him, but the twits deserved it—for causing a scene, for contributing to noise pollution, for being