Chapter 1

"Let's find out if you're getting paid this year—" taunted a voice in the dark.

"Lets find out if your tongue would cover my salary," returned a second voice coldly.

Andre grinned. In the way that beasts do when they try to imitate humans.

"Caah. You're too noble-nancied for the black market." He spat into a dusty clay pot at the corner of his work desk.

"And you're too filthy to fetch a decent price," retorted the blonde-haired boy to whom he was speaking.

It had been thirty-six days since Peter Osamu had last received his due pay. He was growing tired of this game. Andre wiped his lips on the back of his paw.

"You know I love you, boy."

Peter didn't say a word. Andre loved three things: breakfast, lunch, and reminding people of why they couldn't afford dinner. Peter had only enough flour and dried cockatrice meat to last another week at most. It didn't help that the added stress increased his appetite.

"Tell you what—" he tapped a clawed finger upon a mess of grimy documents he hadn't bothered to read. "Bring me the sorry hide of one of the Doom Brothers, and maybe I can put a little pressure on the skivved old wyrms depriving you of your funds."

"I don't care about Mason and his friends," Peter said tiredly. "I've already told you, I don't take bounties anymore." Of course Andre needed someone like him to take out the trash. The ratty old drake couldn't win a fight with a bubblebath, much less a back-alley brawler like Ironsnout Mason. But unbenounced to Andre, Peter already knew that a string of gambling debts were the real motivator in all this.

That's what he heard at the tavern. Between the drunken howling of Brass Hellsing and Crimson Crowne. Andre was on a Poker losing streak and Mason intended to soon collect that debt in, as they'd put it, "the most violent ways imaginable."

He was fortunate that Andre was ignorant of more intricate matters. Like the scantly important fact that the Doom Brothers actually respected Peter. Not another soul in Cresswoven could claim such a title. Not that he had consented to it. Or was particularly thrilled with the power of having the town delinquents as members of his fan club.

Still, on thankless nights like tonight when sleeplessness and hunger mingled with the hot breath of his tormentor, the temptation tugged at his conscience. If he really wanted to, he could put an end to it all. And walk the long road home eating an ice cream cone.

"Are you listening to me you ungrateful little fleshling?" Peter's eyes shifted back to the unsightly dragon across from him. He wasn't listening. He was thinking about ice cream cones. And whether or not the change in his pocket would be enough for one.

Andre opened his mouth to hiss another string of profanities from across his desk, but was quickly silenced when Peter stood up.

"Where the bleeding bletchny do you think you're going?"

"Out."

Andre bristled. "Out where?"

Peter finished counting the coins in his hand and agrievedly shuffled them back into his pocket.

"Out of this room because its skivving hot in here."

"You're not going anywhere until you hand me last week's patrol records!" the dragon snarled. Peter sighed.

"I dropped those off this morning. They’ve been on your desk the whole time."

Andre blinked at him and turned to squint at the disheveled papers crying for air under his giant reptilian paws. He inhaled and gave a long puff to clear the layer of soot that was resting upon them. For a moment he looked relieved when the paperwork all but seemed to suddenly appear before his eyes. Regrettably for the both of them, the cloud of soot rose and waft through the air, circling its way back into the nose of the one whom had disturbed it.

Andre sneezed.

The rest was history.

Peter stood at the door watching one sleepless night of work and a balsa wood desk kindle in a steady flame. He said nothing as he turned and headed out the door.

The night air was cool and peaceful, aside from the echos of Andre's cursings as they faded behind him with each step. When he had reached the warm, familiar awning of Crumpettail's Bakery, he purchased a blackberry bun and left it behind the door of Andre's office building. He could hear the dragon inside shuffling around and sulking to himself about his many misfortunes.

"Speak for yourself, you miserable salamander—" Peter uttered to himself before turning to head home.

He had done his job. He had done more than his job—when would the day come when someone other than himself recognized it? When would someone buy him a blackberry bun to remind him that there would always be a better day?

Peter shook his head to push aside his thoughts. His stomach spoke in a very persuasive voice at the least helpful of times. But it mattered not. Paycheck-ed or penniless, he was here to protect the dracians of Cresswoven. All of them. Yes—even sooty old bastards like Andre.