The child, a newborn, is wrapped in old, torn newspaper and tucked into the corner of a cardboard box. A girl huddles nearby, wedged in the shadowed safety between the brick wall of a building and an overflowing dumpster. She is old enough to be the child's mother--somewhere between fourteen and sixteen--but I know she is not. She is hurting; I can taste her pain. It is the heavy, sour pain of abuse and neglect. It is an unnatural pain, not the clean, fresh pain of childbirth. Her pain is so strong, it draws me forward.
        As I approach, the girl pulls the box with the baby closer. I stop and wait. She stands, placing herself between the baby and me. Despite her hurting there is a spark of pride and defiance left in her. Flavors light and savory. The hands that have bruised her body haven't been able to quench her spirit completely. Good.
        She does not, I think, recognize me for what I am. The thought that she might not be for me teases my mind, but I discount it. This is my place. It is my place now as it has always been. As it was when the city was no more than a collection of huts and the inhabitants worshipped and feared me. It is still my place, even though the people of today do not know or care that I exist. Twice a year, on the first moonless night of summer and winter, I come to this forgotten alley. I come to this place to collect what has been left here for me.
        And always there is one--and sometimes two--left here for me to claim.
        My sacrifices.
        Once it had been virgin girls or seasoned warriors. Sacrifices chosen because they were the best. Different flavors. Times have changed. The modern sacrifices are the forgotten ones--the lost, the beaten, the discarded. Not all are abandoned or abused like the baby and the girl. Some have brought about their own destruction, ruining their souls with poisons that promise escape and deliver desolation and slavery. Others are filled with despair, hopeless in a world that no longer cares. Still others are here at the appointed time--innocent children in adult bodies, their minds incapable of understanding.
        I take them all. If they are here they are mine. I feed on their pain and grief, their emptiness, as I used to feed on strength and purity. They feed me and in turn, I protect them. This one promises much and I am hungry. She must come with me.
        The girl watches me warily. I look at the baby. Its lips are blue, its movements weak. I can taste its small fear and confusion. It must not die. I step closer and the girl flinches but stands her ground. Protective.
        "The child is cold," I tell her.
        She does not answer but chances a glance at the box and shivers as a finger of cold caresses her. Concern flits across her face. Good, she can care. I step nearer, and she snatches the baby up, hugs it to her. The baby whimpers, but is too cold to cry.
        "Give me the baby," I say. "Let me warm it."
        She shivers again, looks at the warm coat I wear.
        "Don't hurt him," she whispers.
        "I would not. Please." I reach for the baby. Reluctantly, she passes him to me, then steps back.
        "He is safe now," I answer. "As you can be." I tuck the child close to my chest--it will be warm soon--and hold out my hand for the girl. She hesitates; I must be patient. She is not the first to question. Maybe she senses that I am not what I seem. Even in this form I am not entirely human. Can she see that?
        "Come with us," I say.
        "Who are you?" she asks, thin arms hugging thin body.
        "I am called Liandri." It isn't enough for her. She is perceptive. She knows I am not what I seem.
        "Why are you here? You some kind of social worker?" There is contempt in her voice, she does not believe I can make her safe.
        Now it is my turn not to answer. I cannot lie, nor can I tell her the truth--not yet. When we get to where I will take them, to my home, then she will understand. Then her questions will be answered. But not here. Not in this squalid alley in the heart of this uncaring city. Not with sirens and shouts and screams and hard laughter echoing around us.
        "Will you come with me?" I ask. I do not want to leave her. There is so much pain. It radiates from her in waves, enticing me. She needs me as much as I need her.
        Almost against her will she steps closer. She is looking at my hand. To her it must look like a trap, a snare. She finds it difficult to trust.
        "Where?"
        "To a better place," I tell her. "A safe place."
        She studies me again, but will not meet my eyes. Explanations would not be necessary if she would meet my gaze. Finally, she shrugs.
        "Yeah," she says. "I'll come with you." I can almost hear the unspoken "for now."
        I hold out my hand to her again but she does not take it. She steps neatly past me and walks toward the mouth of the alley. When I do not follow, she stops, looks over her shoulder at me. "You comin'?"
        She doesn't understand. We will not leave that way. She must take my hand.
        "Wait," I tell her. "Come back."
        She returns.
        "Take my hand."
        "Why?" She is wary again, unwilling to trust. Dare I tell her why? Dawn is approaching. I can smell the expectation of day in the sour air. I decide.
        "I am not what I seem," I tell her. "You know that."
        "What are you?" she asks again.
        "I am a dragon."
        Not surprising, she laughs. It is a bitter sound. "Yeah, right!" She looks me over. I know what she sees--a smallish, middle-aged woman with brown hair fading to grey and a thickening middle. She sees me as I choose to be seen.
        For a moment I allow the chimera to slip--just a little. Just enough to change faded blue eyes to brilliant sapphire, grey-brown hair to golden scales. It is enough. Her eyes widen.
        She is remarkable, this one. Fear lightens her eyes for only a moment. It is quickly supplanted by curiosity and an acknowledgement of hope--so sweet. The unknown frightens her less that the known horrors she has lived. She takes my hand.
        For a moment we stand together. Her hand is small and cold but the grip is firm. She has made her decision. She does not trust--not yet--but that will come with time. She must learn to forget first. For now she is willing to hope, and for me that is enough.
        I pull the energies to me, and the world she knows fades and is replaced with mine. I release her hand. We are home.