TITLE: Running Down the Dragon
GENRE: Urban Fantasy
Idiots. I can't believe they keep trying, but I guess everyone needs a hobby. For the third time in as many weeks, someone tried to corner me in the Common. I guess it's a sign. I should probably change my route more often. It probably won't stop the idiots from trying, but I do get sick of fighting them off.
I don't actually enjoy hurting people. If they just asked, I'd be happy to give them what they wanted. God knows I have more than I need. That's the beauty of compound interest when you have nineteen-hundred years worth of investments.
Dragons used to hoard gold, gathering piles of it under drafty old mountains. But that was my grandparents. Now, we hoard savings bonds in safety deposit boxes. It's a much sounder investment strategy--a lot less likely to get you killed.
Unless you wander around Boston after dark, apparently.
"What is it with you people?" I muttered, as yet another nutjob with a knife thought he got the drop on an easy target.
No cliched conversation from this one, at least. He just swung a fist at me. It wasn't even the fist with the knife in it. Amateur.
Not a great fighter, the would-be mugger swung his arm so hard his own momentum took him down for me. He landed in a nice muddy puddle, at least. He wasn't hurt, other than his pride.
I shook my head at the kid, threw him a few twenties for his trouble, and kept walking.