First Class: Dragon Hunters, Book One

By Vik Walker

Dragons, creatures created of pure magik, and necessary to the very existence of all Nitali kind, are being slaughtered by the Evil into near extinction. Now, more than ever, Nital needs Dragon Hunters, protectors of dragons and all the magikal races who depend upon their magik to survive.

This is First Class, new recruits chosen at the highest training level to serve and protect all those who live behind the shield. They are the future Dragon Hunters, the next in line, and Nital's only hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vik Walker
• Release date: Jan 21, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463056493

Vik Walker

Not so very long ago, a storyteller was born, one might even say, a fantasy weaver (oooh, I like that – kinda rolls off the tongue, dontcha think?). Hand in hand with her most trusted friend, an imaginary boy named Charlie (awww, I miss Charlie), she wove many a tale of aliens and evil clones who impersonated her elder brothers (for certainly she wasn't actually related to those wretched boys who teased and taunted her mercilessly) while growing up in Ontario, Canada. Even when Charlie faded away, she continued to live in her own fantasy world, telling her stories to her stuffed animals, and finally writing them down when she was old enough to know how...

Book preview

First Class

Dragon Hunters

Book One

Written by: Vik Walker

Illustrations by: Vik Walker

Text copyright © 2019 by Vik Walker

Illustrations copyright © 2019 by Vik Walker

All rights reserved

Katvikbooks

http://www.katvikbooks.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter One - Sully

Chapter Two - Kørfrøk

Chapter Three - Bryame

Chapter Four - The Choosing

Chapter Five - The Sidhe

Chapter Six - Hullrech

Chapter Seven - A Good Erew is Hard to Find

Chapter Eight - Back to Reality

Chapter Nine - Recriminations

Chapter Ten - Bad Company

Chapter Eleven - Winds of Fate

Chapter Twelve - Back Down the Rabbit Hole

Chapter Thirteen - I Know You Are, But What Am I

Chapter Fourteen - History Lessons

Chapter Fifteen - Reunions

Chapter Sixteen - Between a Stone and a Hard Place

Chapter Seventeen - Field Trip

Chapter Eighteen - Anything That Can Go Wrong

Chapter Nineteen - Devil's Due

Chapter Twenty - Lotions & Potions & Sparkly Things

Chapter Twenty-One - Best Laid Plans

Chapter Twenty-Two - A Sidhe and a Vampyre Walk Into a Bar

Chapter Twenty-Three - Reckonings

Chapter Twenty-Four - Turn and Face the Strange

Glossary of Characters

Glossary of Terms

Chapter One

Sully

As Sully looked out of the window of the nondescript sedan, at the nondescript house, in the nondescript neighbourhood, where the social worker had just parked, he swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat, fisting his hands in his pockets to hide the shakes. As for the social worker himself, Mr. Pratt was anything but nondescript. Sully could come up with plenty of adjectives to describe that one. 'Smelly as Satan's hairy ass crack', being right there at the top of the list.

Dude reeked.

The guy opened the driver's side door, and Sully got slammed with the stench of stale cigarettes and seriously brutal BO, as the outside air wafted it right at him, making him nearly hurl up the bile he'd just choked down. Unlike the others who'd performed this whole intro to the new fam thing, Mr. Pratt didn't bother with the BS platitudes or words of encouragement. A grunted, C'mon, was all he got as the guy rocked his hefty girth back and forth in order to build up enough momentum to get his fat ass out of the car.

Getting out on his side, Sully opened the back door and grabbed the half-full Hefty bag containing everything in the world that he owned, then took a moment to square off at the house. Catching his breath, he resigned himself to the living hell that awaited him on the other side of that rusted out screen door.

Mr. Pratt had stopped at the base of the steps leading up to the porch, his ruddy cheeked, sweaty face turned towards him, glaring with a whole lotta PO'ed that Sully wasn't keeping up. Had to wonder if the mottled puce of his overheated complexion had more to do with the fact that the guy was fat, or a by-product of being a ginger. Probably both. And, the 'I don't get paid enough for this crap', just kept on keeping on with the oozing out of his red rimmed eyes.

Better, Sully supposed, than the fake attempts the others had tried to pull with all the give it a chance's, and maybe this will be the right fit's they had all tried to feed him. At least he didn't have to try to pretend that he bought into their crap. Didn't have to force a strained smile that felt too tight on his face as he mumbled platitudes no one believed right back at them. All Mr. Pratt expected was for him to move his butt into the house, so he could wash his hands of him. On that note, Sully got with the program and dragged his feet across the cracked path that housed more weeds than cement, and tried to mentally prepare himself.

Problem child.

The words trailed through his mind, the multitude of voices who'd spoken them over the years all blending into one. Within a week of entering the system a little over six years ago, Sully had been given the label, and thanks to that title, had gone from crappy place to worse place, to downright nightmare. There were only so many foster parents that would take a kid so named, so, that's where the worst cases went. Bullies, freaks, crazies, these were the kids Sully had been forced to cohabitate with since the day he'd been shoved into their ranks. If that wasn't bad enough, for the most part, the adults who opened their doors to such kids fell into similar categories. And that's what awaited him on the other side of that door.

With an annoyed grunt, Mr. Congeniality rubbed his dripping forehead with his forearm, then weeble-wobbled his way up the steps as soon as Sully got within a couple feet of him. Sully followed as the guy made with the whole knock-knock thing, then stood there waiting, trying to swallow his stomach back down to where it belonged, until that rusted piece of crap was pushed open with an ear-splitting creak.

Hi-i-i, the woman who answered crooned, somehow making those two little letters form a three syllable word.

Phoney much?

Probably best to keep that thought to himself. Sully just forced his face to crack into something resembling a smile as he nodded in acknowledgement, while keeping his opinions of her to himself. Frizzy, too blonde, obvi bleached hair, make-up that looked like it had been applied by just sticking her head in the bag and giving a good shake, too skinny, ropey arms protruding from a faded denim shirt with matching faded, oily, ripped jeans…this broad just screamed I'm only in it for the money.

The recoil of horror at getting a load of what was doin' with his face was quickly covered up, as she plastered the fake smile back on, and continued with the syrupy sweet, too phoney sing-song, You must be Sulumor. It's so nice to meet you!

Yeah. Right. Reeeaaal nice.

Totally explained why she'd taken one look at the freak show going on on his mug and made like she was desperate to grab a crucifix to ward off his evil stank. He just kept up with the smile that felt like it was gonna split the skin on his cheeks, and did the bob of the head thing again.

Not that he wasn't used to the looks. Got them every time anyone got a gander at the random purple blotches that had taken up residence all over the left side of his face before he'd even been born. People stared, or tried to pretend like they weren't staring. Kids went so far as to hide behind their parent's legs, not bothering to use their inside voices when they asked what was wrong with him. So, yeah, he totally qualified as a freak. But that's not what had gotten him the label of problem child.

The screen door creaked - actually, it was more of a groan - wider as she gestured with her free hand. Come in, come in.

God, he hoped the diabetic-coma voice was for Mr. Pratt's benefit, and that she didn't keep up with the crap after he'd gone. Only a handful of words out of her mouth, and he was already getting a headache. Choking up on the top half of the Welfare Luggage, like it was a baseball bat he could use to defend himself from whatever was doin' inside that house, Sully made his way past her into the dismal interior. Mr. Pratt didn't bother, just made grunting noises that presumably were supposed to indicate that he was satisfied that Sully was in a good environment. Like the sweaty walrus even cared. With one last glimpse of the weeble-walk as Mr. Couldn't-Care-Less hightailed it to his car, the door was shut, and Sully was trapped in hell.

C'mon. Flat voice, no inflection. Yup, she'd been pourin' on the syrup for the social worker.

Thank god.

As she made her way into the house towards what sounded an awful lot like the machine gun fire of a video game, Sully dropped the bag and grudgingly made his feet do the follow thing. Yippee, it was time to get on with the meet and greet of the other inmates. Down the hall and to the left, and there they were, sitting on the floor in front of a TV that must have been made before Sully was even born, Xbox controllers in hand, they were studiously ignoring the woman who provided their room and board.

This is Sulumor, she tossed out in an I couldn't care less if you're listening manner.

Sully, he quickly corrected. Bad enough he had a freak face, didn't need to add a freak name into the mix.

Guy on the right who had black hair, wore all black from stem to stern and was sporting a whole lotta gunmetal piercings, didn't even bother to look up, making like he wasn't aware she was even in the room. The other guy, an average looking brunette, in an average fleece, average jeans and average sneakers, at least attempted the hey how are ya's, giving Sully a brief up-nod that went way wrong once he got a load of what was going on with Sully's puss. The brief half-assed attempt to make nice turned into a long stare that resulted in him dropping the controller and muttering words that Foster-Mommy-Dearest should have taken exception to.

An explosion on the screen had guy number one blurting out, What the hell, dude, as he looked over to see why his gaming partner had dropped the ball. Which lead to him getting a good eyeful of Sully's birthmark. Aaand more colourful words ensued.

Foster Mom - what was her name? - pointed at gunmetal, That's Seb, thumb jerk at the other guy, who was still doing the fish mouth routine, and that's Devin.

Hey.

No response. Just a whole lotta what is up with your face?, until Seb elbowed Devin and they turned back to the screen and the game resumed.

Foster Mom didn't give a crap. C'mon, she grunted at him again, then walked off.

He followed her back to the hallway, grabbed his crap, and hoofed it up the stairs behind her. Another hallway, and she stopped in front of his newest home sweet home.

You'll be sharing with Zach. And, that was it.

She wandered off, leaving him to figure everything out on his own. Woulda been nice if she'd at least told him who 'Zach' was, but whatev.

Stepping up to the doorway, he just stood there staring into the space. One bed was made(ish), the other just had a bare mattress. No sheets, no blankets, not even a pillow. Guess that was his bed. Was that rusty brown splotch just below and to the left of where the pillow should be blood? He hoped not, cuz that was a seriously big-assed stain.

Dropping his crap, he stepped into the room, parking it on the bare bed and dropping his head into his hands. Focusing on breathing in and out, he tried to chillax, to get the woodpecker beat of his heart to calm the hell down. Like that was gonna happen. New foster house. New foster kids. New foster parent. New nightmare. It was just a matter of time until he discovered what level of hell he'd been thrust into this time.

The first foster home he'd found himself in had been run by a religious nutter who'd taken one look at his face and been convinced he was possessed by demons. Getting tied up and tortured while freaks prayed at you was not a fun experience. Nor was having the social worker yell at you for running away once you'd gotten yourself free, telling you that your abusers were wonderful, virtuous people, while calling you names you'd never even heard before for daring to 'malign good Christians' with his 'made up stories', then threatening to send you to kiddie jail.

Good Christians? Exactly how was it that those good Christians had figured out how to cause the maximum amount of pain without leaving a single mark that could have corroborated his story?

Round two? The foster parents had been fine, but their kid had been a freakin' psycho. Waking up to headless rats in your bed, and a screaming woman pointing at said rats and blaming you for their headless state? Also not fun. Neither was finding the kid standing over you in the middle of the night holding a freakin' butcher knife. Nobody had believed him then either. They'd been the perfect family, living in the perfect house, had the perfect yard, complete with a perfect white picket fence. Practically the freakin' Cleavers. He, on the other hand? As they said, ugly on the outside…

He didn't even want to think about house number three. Phone books did, in fact, leave bruises, just not in a pattern that spoke of regular beatings. That had been his first run-in with the police. Up until then, he'd been stupid, trying to go home where he'd once felt safe, even though his parents were dead, and it wasn't home anymore. Didn't take a genius social worker to track his ass down. That time he'd taken to the streets, managing to evade capture for three days. Cops had taken one look at him, decided that they didn't like his face, and chosen to interpret his silence as 'attitude'.

On and on it went. Home after home. His abusers were wonderful, he was a douche. A 'problem child'. The last couple places he'd even been told he was 'lucky' they'd take him in. Yeah, he'd been real lucky. Even had the scars to prove it. Of course, Mr. Pratt hadn't said a damn thing, good or bad. No ass chewings, no 'gee willikers' BS, hell, the guy had barely managed more than grunts. There was that at least.

Lying back, he groaned as his mind just kept on with the reruns of the past six years. Like he needed the memory play by play when a whole new episode was about to begin. Speaking of? Sully turned his head to the right and got a good eyeful of that stain. God damn, if that was blood…?

Great. Just freakin' great.

Chapter Two

Kørfrøk

With head held high, Kørfrøk made his way through the winding, maze-like halls of the great keep, the pathetically small staff he was forced by Goblin law to wear at all times, hanging from his belt, and slapping against his thigh with every step. He heard the jeers, the scoffs, the outright insults, some from the shadows, most right out in the open, but continued on as though naught was amiss. Once, he'd had to clench his teeth to keep from reacting, to maintain his dignity, or at least pretend to do so. Now…? Too many years had passed thus, twas all but background noise.

Something smashed into his face, splattering against his cheek before bouncing and ricocheting off his shoulder on its way to the floor. From the scent and feel of it, he guessed it to be rotting fruit, but knew not of which kind. Did not matter. He changed not his demeanour, nor bearing, his stride faltering not a whit as he continued on his path. As with the sounds they made, these acts of hostility were so long commonplace, he was all but inured to them.

Willing his hands to remain at his side, to not brush the offal from his face, to not move to cover the staff that was