9 Chapter 9: All Part of Being a Dragon, Part 1

Theresa perched on her partner's shoulder as the E train rocked them back and forth. She watched the muscles in his cheek twitch. She hoped he was not sinking into one of his moods again; he was a pain in the ass when he was introspective. If only she was a Dragon, she mused, she would be done with these shitty assignments. "Azrael," she whispered in his ear, "what's wrong with you?"

He did not look at her. He faced straight ahead, his eyes inscrutable behind his mirrored sunglasses. "I hate New York City in this century," he said. "I hate its public transportation. It's not the filth, it's not the rats that crawl onto the tracks, it's not even the vagrants who release enough diseased particles to fuel a biological weapons stockpile." The corners of his mouth descended. "It's the damned inefficiency. Trains that never run on time, tunnels that easily flood, incompetent management..."

"Careful, Mister Sunshine," Theresa said, her forked tongue tickling his neck, "I can smell your indignation circuits sizzling." She slipped her tail inside his ear. "Want me to release some endorphins?"

"Stop that," he said as the E train jerked along its tracks. "Just keep your eyes open."

Theresa jabbed his eardrum with her tail. "Ingrate," she said.

"Hey, it's the Chameleon Man!"

Azrael raised his right eyebrow. The man approaching them was short and plump. He wore a black tracksuit and hot pink boots. Bloodshot eyes leered at them from beneath a leather cap. "Yeah, I read about you in The Voice, the man with the giant chameleon. What is it, a puppet?"

Azrael did not answer. He merely stood, his head cocked at a five degree angle.

The man in the pink boots shifted uncomfortably under the disapproving gaze. His eyes shifted from Azrael to Theresa. Theresa flicked her tongue at him. "Yeah, whatever, dick. Yo," he shouted as he slid the between-cars door aside and stepped through, "Chameleon Man's a dick!"

"He's got a point," Theresa said after the door closed. "If they're talking about us in the newspapers, we've lost our advantage. I told you, I should be invisible. Dragons can do that, you know."

"I have no other lead on X-Fifty-Nine except that he is in this miserable city," Azrael said. "He is not one to sit back and bide his time. He will know who we are, and that we are looking for him. He will reach his usual conclusion that the best defense is a good offense, and come after us."

"We've been here three weeks now."

"Patience."

Theresa flicked his earlobe with her tongue. "I could help you find him a lot easier if I was upgraded to Dragon," she said.

His cheek twitched again. "Stop saying that," he said. "You have a good soul. You are perfect just the way you are."

Theresa puffed her neck. His argument always came back to the same place: that she was somehow at fault, somehow not true to herself for wanting more. "You're just worried I'll have more options than your ugly face," she said.

"Quiet."

The train stopped, and its doors opened. A bald man boarded the car, stooping to get his enormous frame inside. He was a sinewy giant, his angular frame concealed by an impeccable navy cloak. His clear, pewter gaze fell upon Azrael. A grin split his features as his eyes opened wide.

"A. Z. Re-Al," the man said, purring each syllable in a basso profondo that rattled the car's windows. Azrael jerked his head in the voice's direction.

Theresa jammed her tail into Azrael's ear. "Let's do this," she said, activating her half of the sync. A second passed, but Azrael's brain did not reply. "Azrael?" she asked. "Come on, I can't engage containment by myself."

"X-Fifty-Nine," Azrael said as he reached into his tattered trench coat and pulled out a pistol. The passengers screamed, and dropped to the floor.

"Holy shit," Theresa said. "What are you doing?"

"Plague this Tapestry no more," said Azrael, and pumped the trigger.

The gun thundered twice, its shots ricocheting off a pole inches from X-Fifty-Nine's head. Azrael fired again, but instead of a third shot ringing out, an umbrella fluttered open in his hand. He cursed.

X-Fifty-Nine laughed from deep within his belly. He threw his cloak off his shoulders. He stood naked, one hand wielding a carving knife. Its blade was a foot long, and glistened like silver. The other fist gripped a trembling chicken by its scrawny neck. Theresa saw terror in its beady, black eyes, and her stomach sank.

"Don't!" she cried.

X-Fifty-Nine held the chicken and the knife high above his head, touching the car's ceiling. He slashed across the fowl's brown neck. Blood gushed forth. He pirouetted on his callused toes, spraying the cowering passengers in scarlet.

The anointed commuters shrank and writhed. Their noses elongated, and hardened into beaks. Feathers pierced through their skins, and bloomed. Within a minute, the car was occupied by chickens. They crawled from underneath their clothing, and turned their squinting eyes upon Azrael and Theresa.

X-Fifty-Nine laughed again, deep, rich, and echoing. Azrael took slow, deliberate steps backward until he was against the car's side. The chickens leaned forward, opened their razor-sharp beaks, and clucked in unison.

Theresa pushed her tail deeper into Azrael's ear. She tried again to link with him, but there was no response. "What the hell is wrong with you?" she asked. Her skin darkened. She dug her toenails into his shoulder, tearing his coat. "Azrael!" Her partner said nothing, his face a grim statue.

The army of fowl advanced.

Azrael brandished his umbrella, and swung at them in broad arcs. One reached his leg, and dug its beak into his shin. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he drove the umbrella down. It was too blunt to pierce the bird's flesh, but it snapped the creature's ribcage. The chicken let out one final, desperate cluck, and expired.

Its comrades paused, and looked at each other. As if having reached some silent decision, they resumed their attack. They dug their beaks into Azrael's leather boots. He stumbled, tripped over the edge of a seat, and sprawled to the floor, Theresa still clinging to his shoulder.

The feathered army dove upon them.