Rule 44: Dragons are not heroes—do not act like one.
It’s one of the many rules I, Orpheus, abide by. One of 345, to be exact. Though please don’t ask me to recite them all—I simply haven’t the time. Cave dwelling involves much slumbering and polishing of scales.
But I’ll tell you a few.
Typos are proof of humanity.
The Typo Alliance slogan fills my mind as I park and slip a file from my purse. I tap my glasses twice, activating the scanner to illuminate data.
TYPO: NEW ECLECTIC GRID POWERS LOCAL WAREHOUSE
ASSIGNED: AGENT BRODY HIGGINS
CONCLUSION: NO FOLLOW-UP REQUIRED
I snap the file shut. Brody might
I’ve just finished mopping the floor of the Decimator’s control room when two Second Class Henchmen walk in. The big goons leave muddy footprints all over the—formerly—shiny floor. I glare after them, but they don’t even notice me.
Typical.
No one notices me unless they slip on a wet floor, or—
I could feel the kitten’s heartbeat.
That shouldn’t have been possible.
Opening his mouth, the kitten let out a tiny meow, showing off his small pink tongue. I hugged him to my chest and glanced around the alley. We were still alone, unnoticed.
I’d stepped into the alley to adjust my glitching earpiece.
Waves lapped against the ship’s hull as we eased as close to the island’s rocky coast as we dared. Even with a full moon, I couldn’t see any of the island’s inhabitants—but I could hear them.
“It’s so beautiful,” someone sighed.
Swinging around, I found a sailor walking in a trance
Crash!
Lase sighed. She hated doing this, especially with her brother.
“Yuck!” More banging.
“Tim, quiet! We’ll get caught,” she hissed.
“What do you even take from an apota…apot-a-carry?”
“Apothecary, you dolt. We’re here for healing ointments.”
“Is this it?” He emerged, reeking of a floral scent with swamp water highlights.
Though I was eager to rush into a burning building once, now I sit on the sidelines, watching friends risk their lives to quench the flames, knowing they will hate me if they discover the real reason I’m in this wheelchair.
Bill stumbles out of the building with a pale-faced boy in his arms.
“Do you remember your name?” A woman’s voice echoes in my mind.
My eyes open. Fluorescent lights stare back at me from the ceiling as my surroundings begin to register. I am lying on a steel gurney, wearing a dingy set of medical scrubs.
“Nelson. Nelson Duran.” I cock my head at the sound of my own voice. Is that right?
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