A Shade of Dragon 3(3)

I wound my way to the rock formations which jutted around the mouth of the cave where I had met Theon. So much of our history had transpired on this shore. This was where he had saved my life, blowing magical heat through my frozen, sodden body. This was where he had revealed his dragon form to me, massive and gleaming, dangerous and exotic. At the pinnacle of this cliffside had been the nest of harpies who had plucked me from the beach and brought me to their home—a nest of debris as large as a studio apartment. Theon had used the necklace—a shard of magical mirror, heirloom to his family—in order to track me there. He had broken one of the harpies’ wings and dismantled the entire nest by thrusting it to the rocks below with his boot.

To think… a harpy infestation in Beggar’s Hole, Maine.

I stared up into the sky, toward the Cliffside location of the harpy nest which had been there only two weeks ago. Well—it had been up there before Theon had destroyed it.

If I remembered correctly, birds only used nests to lay eggs and raise their young. When the young had gone, the birds abandoned the nest. So—had the harpies built the nest to lay eggs in it? And, after Theon had destroyed it, would they return to build another? After all—if they did like the seclusion and ocean access of the cliffside—they might not find another area that catered to those preferences. They might have returned after all.

I pursed my lips and gripped a low-hanging rock, jutting from the cliff. I wedged my foot into another and heaved my body upward. The last time I had been at the top of this summit, the harpy flock had clawed at me, had even infected my arm with a strange germ; I was certain they would have killed me if Theon had not arrived. Was I suicidal?

Maybe a little bit reckless.

But I didn’t have any other options. Was I supposed to just return to DC, and The Shenandoah Institute? Just get some job at an office or a learning center, become a receptionist, forget the rock island somewhere a few miles off the coast of Beggar’s Hole—the rock island which would lead me home at last… to Theon?

Was I supposed to start going to therapy, like my mom would beg and beg? Let them tell me I’d been molested and tortured, until I could finally parrot back to them what a pervert and criminal Theon had been?

I couldn’t go back. I could only go forward. My feet found chinks and crevasses, my fingers found bulbs and juts. I pulled myself higher and higher, refusing to look down, until I had reached an even plain of black rock on which rested a nest the size of a studio apartment.

They’d come back. They’d rebuilt.

I stared breathlessly, hair whipping across my face, as I contemplated what to do.

The harpies, from our brief interaction, had seemed vicious. It would do me well to arm myself somehow, or prepare to make some sort of offering which could satisfy their needs. But what did a giant bird-woman need?

I crept closer to the nest and peered over its edge.

Inside lay fragments of broken speckled eggshell.

And twisting, thrashing babies with birdlike bodies and humanoid faces, half my size. They were deformed: missing wings, missing eyes, misshapen, lopsided. Something was askew in their figures.

I was so spellbound by the bizarre young inside the nest, I almost didn’t see the harpy approach until she was right on top of me. There had been four on the night of my attack: two brown and mottled, one black, and one white. This was one of the brown and mottled ones, but she must have been the one whose wing was not broken by Theon. Her wings were wide and powerful as she settled onto the rim of the nest; her feet were talons, and her thighs and abdomen were feathered. Her arms were withered and held close to her chest. Only her face was recognizably “human.”

“Girl,” the harpy greeted me in a hiss. I’d forgotten how their teeth were like little white spikes. Creepy. She looked like a cross between Cindy Crawford and a Venus fly trap. “Mate of Theon.” She cocked her head to the side, and the gesture was so avian, I almost giggled. “Wherefore have you returned to this nest?”

I clutched the pepper spray dangling from my belt. But she didn’t advance on me. Why? “I came…” She hopped down into the nest and toward one of her malformed young. “I came to ask… to see…” And she leaned over it, vomiting meaty sludge onto its face. My hands flew to my mouth and I gagged, horrified. The baby rolled away from her, uninterested in the offering. “If you could help me,” I finished.

The harpy stepped away from her young, clearly distraught at its refusal to eat. “Help you,” she echoed. It reminded me of myself—how I had been only half present during conversations the past few days. She looked up at me, sharp again. “Why would I help you? I’m under orders to kill you, mate of Theon.”