Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
All of a sudden, a loud thud hits the rear window providing me with the answer. The bloody remains of something humanlike slide down the windshield, leaving red smears during their descent. Gasping should be my reaction, but the sight of an enormous beast with lustrous, platinum scales stomping around the rooftop parking area results in my speechless gawking instead.
Is that a…dragon?!
Where the fuck did he come from?
Why the fuck did he come here?
And how the fuck is everything simultaneously getting stranger yet making so much more sense?!
Another leather sporting creature makes the mistake of attempting an attack which leads him to the same fate as the red stain that’s now underneath the back bumper. He’s not even able to unleash a shot before the large rectangular headed creature is frying him like a ribeye with a stream of almost pure white flames. Right after the now you see him, now you see his ashes moment, the dragon whips his attention to me, connecting my gaze to one I’m more than acquainted with.
So, I can’t be a half-orc because of my height, but the word vomit extraordinaire can be a fucking dragon?!
We’ll be discussing that fucked up logic later.
Much later.
Somewhere pre “how often do you bring women home because you kidnapped their mother” conversation but post the “how is any of this shit possible” one.
Seriously.
How is any of this shit fucking possible?!
How can any of it really exist?
Finally finding freedom from the leather vise grip better known as the front seats, I gracelessly flop into the territory with barely enough time to secure the keys between my boobs before an unexpected fist is breaking the glass beside me. Glass shards scatter along the edge of the window, yet the sinister fingers searching for entry assistance seem unbothered.
My first response isn’t—admittedly—my best.
Slapping the hand once to hinder the process causes the assailant to grump but not stop.
Slapping it twice more encourages the displeasure to manifest in a verbal form while continuing his hunt for the handle.
Seeing his grip manage to lock onto the edge of it prompts me into repositioning myself on the seats to deliver a full-force kick forward, crunching his digits. The howls of agony have me triumphantly grinning and applying more pressure. In spite of his thrashing and awkward twisting of his frame during his best efforts to get the other hand involved, I don’t relinquish my hold.
I keep it steady.
Firm.
Unyielding until an inexplicable feeling indicates to let go.
The instant I do, the lanky male stumbles backward, is swathed by Ptur’s long tail, and becomes completely crushed in a single squeeze.
Any feelings of victory are immediately exchanged for fear when another attacker approaches the vehicle from the other side. His breaking and entering are so swiftly successful that I don’t even have time to process exactly how he did it. He not only manages to get the door unlocked and open, he accomplishes the beginning of what I’m realizing is their true mission.
To rescue my mother.
Great.
They’re trying to save her while we’re trying to imprison her, yet it’s us who are the supposed “good guys” in the scenario.
Eye-twitching irony at its finest.
His long, bony fingers wrap around one of her bulky arms and begin what I want to point out is going to be fruitless tugging.
Again, science may not be my strongest subject, and I know the story of David and Goliath, but this shit is like watching Jack Skellington try to pick up Jack Kraken.
Equally embarrassing as it is unlikely.
Taking advantage of his implausible progress, I visually scan the space for something I can use as a weapon. The fact Ptur’s vehicle is Monk level of organized decreases the chance I’ll locate anything just lying around; however, the second my stare lands on the zipped-up duffel near my feet, I know I’ll be in luck. Opening the bag reveals a wide array of weapons that all bear the same strangely familiar markings on the handles. With no time to dwell on the detail or let my mind register where I might even know the detail from, I reach for the sai on top, grip the leather handle tightly, and instinctively lunge forward so that the longest, sharpest prong pierces his extended neck. We’re both taken by surprise regarding my accuracy along with my success.
Footnote.
Didn’t expect to be so exact with zero previous experience.
The wounded attacker traipses backward, hands gripping his gushing throat, while I remain paralyzed in the defensive position inhaling odd scents of peppermint, prepared for someone else to pick up where he left off. However, realizing that isn’t going to happen instantly occurs when the entire vehicle is unexpectedly lifted off the ground, slamming the door shut in the process. My rolling off of the seat has my back landing on top of the metal filled bag so hard it knocks all the air out of my lungs as well as a grunt of pain. Thankfully, the weapon wielding hand ends up hovering above me rather than accidentally letting it poke me, which was a much more likely possibility than this one.