Chapter One

Emma

T he budding flower of hope died in a flurry of cursing and snarls from outside the dingy walls of the trailer where I lived. The language was as dark as the night outside.

I should have known better than to give even a single flicker of flame to such an idea. After all, peace with the dragons, even if it was more than just a rumor, wasn't guaranteed to bring me anything.

The hellhole I'd chosen for myself wasn't about to change anytime soon. We couldn't just up and go back home. Many of us didn't even have homes left to go back to. Life in the refugee camp would go on.

As terrible as it was.

The flimsy metal door flung open, followed by a bark of red-hot anger as it smashed against the exterior wall and bounced back into the face of the person trying to come through.

"Stupid, fucking door. Doesn't even know when it's supposed to stay open, useless piece of shit. Goddamn rain! Fucking soaked."

I cringed, looking helplessly around the interior of the trailer, hoping nothing was out of place or amiss. I kept my breathing low. Soft.

"You would not believe the absolute bullshit going on today," Robert "Bob" Sullivan snarled, stomping across the freshly cleaned floors in his rainy boots, tracking water, mud and who knew what else indoors.

He opened the fridge, and his hand darted in, snagging a beer like a lizard does a fly. Aggressive and lightning quick. He popped the top, the cap dropping to the floor. His boots came off as he sat, tossed haphazardly toward the door, spraying water and bits of mud everywhere.

What did Bob care, though? He didn't do the cleaning. I did. Not that it stopped him from screaming at me if it wasn't perfectly clean. Or if I took too long to clean. Any attempt to tell him it would go faster if he helped had long since been abandoned.

Bob didn't take orders. He gave them. This was his camp. He was the boss, and he expected people to do as he said. At six-five, touching tw0-fifty, he was not a man to cross either.

The recliner chair creaked as he dropped into it.

"Another ration cut," he spat, answering his own sentence as if I'd spoken. He preferred it that way. "I told them I don't get enough food as is, but they didn't listen. They don't care, the fucking feds. Stupid politicians. They're still eating fine, of course. But not us, not here. I have to suffer because they won't give up a damn thing."

I knew what the others in the camp were doing for food. I knew what Bob ate. After all, I prepared it. There wasn't a single "lack" on his plate. Maybe it wasn't the AAA-grade steaks and lobster he thought was his due, but he ate well every day. Many in the camp had to skip meals. Bob had beer to spare.

At least you're not in a tent. You get to eat full meals as well. No empty belly. Not anymore. That's why you're here. The warmth of the trailer. The food. Keep that in mind.

I often was not full, however, because I gave away much of my food. What I kept for myself was enough.

"Beer!" Bob barked, draining the last of his bottle and holding it out by the stem, waggling it impatiently when I didn't immediately materialize at his side.

Heaven forbid I have to take five steps across the trailer to reach him.

Fresh refill in hand, he took a long swig and then went back to cursing the politicians, the military, the people in the camp. Everyone he could think of. Never himself. Bob was perfect.

I snorted.

The baleful glare of two watery blue eyes pinned me in place. "Is something funny?"

Swallowing nervously, I shook my head. "No, Bob, that wasn't a laugh."

"It sounded like a laugh. Why are you laughing?"

Telling Bob he was wrong was never wise. Having him think I was laughing at him was worse. I licked my lips, right hand shaking. With a large effort, I stilled it.

"I was agreeing with you."

"About?" he growled.

"The politicians. You're so right. They're so greedy."

Bob eyed me slowly. "I know I am. There's war going on, and those fat cats still can't be bothered to suffer like the rest of us!"

I breathed a soft sigh of relief as he returned his attention to the politicians while reaching over to turn on the television. Crisis averted.

For now. There would be another. There always was with Bob. The only thing bigger than his temper was his insecurity. I should've seen it sooner, but the early days of the refugee camp were such a disaster. I'd arrived without anything more than the clothes on my back, having missed more meals than I'd eaten in the week prior. I'd been tired, weak, cold, and hungry.

And then Bob had been there. He'd picked me up, helped me stay alive in the chaos that followed. At the time, he'd seemed like a really good guy.

"Beer!" he half-screamed, tossing the bottle at me.

I fumbled the catch but managed not to drop it. Even so, I froze, expecting Bob to erupt out of his chair.

"Then there's these stupid rumors," he spat.

I breathed softly and hurried to get him a fresh beer.

"Peace," he said, hurling the word at the wall. "With the dragons? What a load of bullshit."

The source of his excess irritation was obvious now. Bob knew that if peace came to pass, the refugees in the camp would go home. He would lose his spot.

Lose his power.

I had a momentary spike of fear. How would he react to that knowledge? There was only one convenient outlet for his rage.

Me.

" Are you fucking kidding me?!"

The beer sailed through the air.

CRASH.

The TV and bottle both broke, which sent Bob flying off the handle as he realized what he'd done.

"Bob," I said, lifting my hands as he erupted from his chair, his face turning red, spittle flying from his mouth.

"They're doing it. They're really going to cave to those invading lizards! We should just nuke the bastards and be done with it!"

Even I, a poorly educated waitress from the middle of nowhere, could see the flaws with that plan. Not Bob.

"It's going to be okay," I said.

They were the wrong words. I knew it immediately and began backing away as he turned on me, finding an active source for his fury right there. The look in his eyes was wild. The walls of the trailer, already tight, seemed to close in even more. I was trapped with him.

Nobody to stop him. The ugly look on his face bespoke many punishments.

"How is it going to be okay?" he said in a low tone. "How? Do you think you know better than me? Do you think you understand all the shit I have to deal with? DO YOU?"

He was screaming by the end. I was crying. Trying to back away.

As I did, my heel caught something. I stumbled over it but caught myself. One of Bob's boots.

His boots that he'd thrown lazily at the door, expecting me to clean up.

At the door.

Without thinking twice, I kicked the boot toward him, then bolted for the door and the rain and darkness beyond.