Dee Dalsey was constantly surrounded by heroes. Big heroes. Little heroes. (One that could be either, depending on the need.) Heroes with super strength, super speed, or super senses. Not to mention the whole slew of heroes that could fly.
Yet none
Etta Mae grimaced at the curtain of cigar smoke at the entrance to the Golden Stars Space Casino. Her worn loafers crunched on the carpet.
My engine room floor is cleaner than these carpets. Where are the janitor droids? She clutched her slot machine tokens. Focus, girl. You have a mission.
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According to legend, the last herd of unicorns had retreated to a fantastic haven as their numbers dwindled. They had braved the dark interiors of the sunless forests, forded perilous lava rivers, and crossed desolate deserts to reach a majestic mountain range where they could continue living in peace.
Nathan was starting to think the legends were full of it.
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I land in the field behind the castle, and the impact sends a jolt of pain through my joints. I yelp, then grimace.
Pathetic. I may be over a thousand years old, but I have a reputation to uphold!
Spreading my carmine wings wide, I roar.
Everyone knows how the stories go.
The princess imprisoned by a dragon. Then the knight comes and fights the dragon with his mighty lance and rescues the lady.
It’s a good story to tell around the hearth on a winter’s night.
There’s only one trouble with it, and I see that now:
The Dark Lord Vangir snapped his newspaper into crisp submission.
All around him, the summery sounds of mountain life hummed. A pleasant breeze brushed through the weave of his reclining lawn chair, working with the goblet of chilled red lemonade in his calloused hand
I stood, impressed, in Henri Lokath’s office. So many interesting gadgets!
Henri balanced on a hoverboard, surfing an air current. The artificial breeze ruffled his silver hair. A pair of sleek Virtual Reality goggles masked his eyes.
Beside me, Nightwing, my palomino, nickered. It’s time.
I cleared my throat. “Hello, Henri.”
Someone shrieked. Everyone’s heads, including mine, swung toward the east side of the village. A riderless broom raced westward, skimming almost close enough overhead to part my hair. Something red dripped from its straws.
Some folks in the market square yelped with panic. Others raced for cover. A few flung themselves over their wares.
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