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“These are gifts to thank Mr. Moreau for helping us move certain sensitive items.” Eliot’s gaze sweeps over the pile of items—three crates of high-tech weapons, two briefcases of gold bars, and one cage with a towel thrown on top of it.
Eliot’s eyes stay locked on the cage, even as Chapman finishes the deal. The cage isn’t big, no more than two feet in any direction, and he can’t tell what the bars are made out of through the towel so he doesn't know what animal it holds. Maybe a jackalope or wolpertinger with how small it is, but those aren’t especially rare and wouldn’t impress Moreau. Eliot can’t think of many other rare mythical creatures that would be small enough to fit in a cage of that size.
“You going to help or just stand there, Spencer?” Chapman snaps, pulling Eliot out of his thoughts. Eliot glares at Chapman and doesn’t respond, but he does help move the gold.
Eliot’s been having more and more lapses like that recently, staring off into space and thinking of nothing. Trying to think of nothing, while thinking far too much of everything. He thought he’d gotten rid of his morals a long time ago, back when he was still in the army, when he first learned there was no difference between right and wrong and the only thing that mattered was who was footing the bill. But sometimes he wonders how much more blood will end up on his hands before he snaps.
They bring the shipment to Moreau. Eliot stays far away from the cage, though he sees Chapman poke at it a few times and some of the other guys whose names Eliot never bothered to learn seem excited about it.
“What’s this?” Moreau asks when he sees them bring the items to his villa.
“Gifts from Mr. Zeller,” Chapman answers when Eliot doesn’t. Moreau makes a soft tsk noise as he looks over the items, then whips off the towel over the cage.
Eliot’s heart stops in his chest—there’s a dragon in the cage.
Eliot can’t tell if it’s a baby dragon or is full-grown and small, but either way it’s beautiful. Its scales glow a warm, deep red, catching the light as it shifts, mesmerizing to look at. It bares its fangs as Moreau leans over the cage, flaring out its wings to the side, and Eliot notes that one of its wings is bent at an odd angle. It hisses and a puff of smoke escapes from the muzzle that clamped tight around its jaw, and something in Eliot’s gut twists as he sees it cower in the corner of the cage. He wonders where Zeller got it, how Zeller got it.
“Zeller should know I don’t deal in creatures,” Moreau says dismissively.
“Sir, it’s a dragon,” Chapman says, as if Moreau somehow hasn’t noticed. Moreau turns his cool gaze on Chapman, who cowers—much like the dragon.
“I don’t deal in creatures,” Moreau repeats, his voice razor sharp. “Especially not defective ones. I doubt it can even fly. Get rid of it.” Moreau’s words hang in the air, and for some reason Eliot feels like he can’t breathe.
“Sir?” Chapman asks.
“I said: get rid of it. I don’t want it. Smuggling creatures is too risky, especially a dragon, and I don’t want to deal with the added bribes.” Moreau turns and leaves the room.
“Well, I have always wanted to know what it’s like to kill a dragon,” Chapman says, approaching the cage with a wicked glint in his eyes that Eliot doesn't like at all.
“I’ll handle it,” the words come out before Eliot can think twice about them. Chapman narrows his eyes, looking at Eliot suspiciously.
“You sure you can handle it? The dragon seems-”
“I said I’ll do it,” Eliot growls, closing the distance between himself and the cage; no one else dares to challenge him. When he picks up the cage he’s shocked by how light it seems, and something in his stomach twists at that.
Eliot throws the towel back over the cage and walks out. No one stops him. He gets a few curious glances, but being Moreau’s top enforcer comes with some perks, and one of those is that he can just glare at someone and they will quickly find themselves moving elsewhere.
He gets outside the walls of Moreau’s villa and realizes he has no idea what to do with this dragon. He’s not going to kill it—it’s a dragon. It was given as a gift, and it’s not Zeller’s fault he’s too stupid and Moreau’s too stubborn to do anything. Can he just set it free? Dragons don’t have many natural predators, but this one is so small, has already been captured once, and has an injured wing. He doesn’t know if it’ll make it. But at least he’s giving it a chance.
Eliot makes it into the woods outside of Moreau’s villa and sets the cage down. When he whips off the towel, the dragon is still cowering in the corner, looking up at him with wide eyes as it blows out another puff of smoke, but the muzzle is too tight for it to breathe fire.
Eliot stares at it for a long moment. He’s killed a lot of things—people, kids, magical creatures—and he’s never been bothered by it. At least, not bothered enough to stop. But staring down at this little dragon, he knows he can’t kill it. He might get hell for it, but he’s not killing it.
It’s simple enough to open the top of the cage, but when Eliot reaches in to undo the muzzle, the dragon swipes at him.
“Hey!” Eliot jerks his hand back, but he’s already bleeding. Her razor sharp claws left four long marks down his hand. “I’m trying to help,” Eliot grumbles. He doesn’t know if she understands him, but when he reaches in again she doesn’t claw him, so he calls it a win.
The second Eliot unbuckles the muzzle she jumps up out of the cage, hitting him in the face and knocking him on his ass. She moves fast, and he expects her to be gone by the time he looks up.
She isn’t.
She’s a couple feet away on the ground, staring at him.
“Go,” Eliot tells her. She doesn’t go. “If anyone else sees you, they’re gonna try and hurt you. Go.” She still doesn’t go.
Instead, she skitters forward a few feet and nudges at his shoe.
“I’m not bonding with you,” he tells her seriously. “I’m not.” She blinks at him and cocks her head to the side. “You can find someone better, okay? I’m just setting you free.” She steps even closer. “I can’t…” he tries, but then she crawls into his lap and Eliot knows he no longer has a choice in the matter.
“Fuck.” Eliot glances back at Moreau’s villa, the walls of which are still in sight.
He’s not prepared. He’s not packed. He has nothing except the gun he’d been carrying and a knife strapped to his boot. Running from Moreau is a death sentence—that’s what’s kept him around for so long, knowing that even if he is the best enforcer, Moreau will never stop, will never let him go. He’s not prepared.
Eliot looks down at the dragon again. She’s curled up in his lap now, looking settled and at peace. He can’t show back up in the villa having bonded to the dragon he was sent to kill. Moreau might kill him just for that.
“Fuck,” Eliot repeats. He scoops her up and places her on his shoulders, then turns and heads deeper into the woods. His one advantage is that he’ll have a head start before anyone starts looking for him, and he plans to make the most of it.