It should have been so easy.

She lay there, huddled in the dark, her tiny body curled under a dirty rag of a blanket. She’d been shivering, but that had stopped earlier. Without a body, I could not feel, but eons of experience told me that the winter air and the sickness she’d been fighting would bring her to the brink that night.

While the music from her parents’ party thumped below, this tiny child of less than two years drifted closer and closer to death.

And there I was, waiting.

Her ragged breaths came slowly, rasping past her fever-cracked lips in their perfect cupid’s bow. When the intervals between breaths stretched, and the breaths themselves became shallow, puny things, I heard her heart slow, and I felt the thinning of the barrier between her plane and mine.

Timing was everything, and that night, mine was perfect.

I slipped in between one breath and the next. The child didn’t even move. She was so close to death, she had no primal fear instinct left. I felt her draw me in with that shallow, weak sip of air, and once inside, I slowly, inexorably, began to weave my essence into her cells. I infiltrated the chemical code that had been the only gift her parents had deigned to give her . . . the only one worth having, at any rate. Molecule by molecule, I grafted my being in to the tiny, perfect little body that she was shortly to vacate.

Leave, little one, I thought, insofar as I could think such things. I didn’t articulate it as such, since one cannot have true thoughts, let alone language without a body. It was more of a wish, a desire, a tiny little push disguised as an urge: Go, and find your rest.

No.

I stopped. I could not help it. Until her spirit relinquished the body, I could go no further. I was in, I could feel the body, but I could not make it mine. Anger, pure and hot, burned through me as it had done since the beginning, since the choice that prevented me from earning a perfect body of my own. That choice had reduced me to this thieving creature hastening a child’s death so as to gain what should have been mine by right. Rage, at least, was a familiar sensation.

Our chest, no longer so tiny-seeming, rose again with that painfully small breath. This action ignited my rage, and I threw all of it at the tiny, exhausted defiance that was her spirit. I slashed at her, tore at her, battered at everything that she was. I had learned to manipulate energies while her very planet was nothing but a cloud of dust encircling her infant star. I would not be gainsaid! She would die!

We drew another breath, this one a tiny bit stronger.

I felt the anger pulled slowly, haltingly, from me. I felt it flow into the inflamed tissues in our lungs, warming them, warming our blood as it pulsed sluggishly throughout our frame. To my deep incredulity, I felt her take my energy and twist it. No longer a flaming sword of wrath, it became a healer’s cauterizing scalpel.

Our body flashed suddenly hot, too hot, and tiny beads of sweat came instantly into being all over our skin as the infection killing us burned away. Shocked, I lay quiescent in her being as she took another breath, deeper, healthier, and fell from fever-dream into true, healing sleep.

Thank you.

***

We slept. I had never slept before, but I found that I could do nothing else. This body gave me no choice, as I had well and truly tied myself in to its physiological processes. All of humanity was young to me, but intellectually, I knew that this body was considered extremely immature. I had forgotten, however, that that meant it needed an unreasonable amount of that heavy disconnected state known as sleep.

Still, need it we did, and so you can perhaps imagine my anger when we were awakened in a most uncomfortable state. Pain lanced through our middle, twisting and cramping in our too-empty belly. In addition, our body had eliminated its waste, despite all that we could do to keep it in. Our buttocks and the sensitive areas between our legs felt raw and sore from sitting in the wetness and filth our body had rejected.

Our mouth opened, and a thin, high wail came out, punctuated by staccato sobs. Wetness burned in our eyes and I felt her defiant spirit wilt slightly. She felt so alone. No one was coming for her, and it was breaking our little heart.

Perhaps this was my chance.

Go. I whispered into the mind we shared. Go. You’re all alone.

No. A sudden brightening, like a tendril of sunlight through a fissure in a cloud. Not alone. You’re here. You made the sickness go away. And the fissure burst open and our entire being flooded with the light and warmth of joy. We were not alone. We were together.

I was paralyzed by the unfamiliar emotion. Joy had been lost to me for eons. When I wasted my chance to have a body of my own, joy and love and all positive energies were closed off to me forever. Anger and hurt were all that remained, but feeling those energies was better than feeling nothing at all. My rage proved that I was. I existed, despite the tragedy of my choices.

So when the baby’s happiness roared through us like a tidal wave, I drowned, confused by the energy of emotions that did not sear and rend, but rather comforted and uplifted. Our sobs turned to loud, delighted laughter, and we let out a shriek of joy.

A door across the room slammed open, and sudden fear stabbed through us, knocking us off of our feet and down onto our seat. Waste oozed out of the decrepit diaper we wore and dripped out around our thighs to stain the naked crib mattress. Our joyful sounds turned to tiny whimpers.

“GODDAMNIT!” the man shouted like thunder. It hurt our ears, and we scrambled back to the back corner of the crib. His thick-fingered hands reached for the buckle of his belt, and our cries began in earnest. I could feel our little body tremble from the fear that wracked it. He was angry. His anger brought hurt. This we knew, deep in our innermost mind.

The woman followed, and we reached out to her with our shaking arms. She turned her head though, busy lighting a cigarette. A thread of anger all my own began to snake through us. She was our mother! Mothers were supposed to protect their babies, not ignore their pleas for help.

“People are fucking trying to sleep, you stupid brat,” the man shouted. His belt snaked through the loops on his jeans with a sickening, slithering sound. We hiccupped and pushed weakly at his hand as he thrust it under our arm, lifting us roughly from the crib. It hurt, and he tossed us to the floor with a sound of disgust. “Fucking gross!” he shouted. “Your stupid fucking kid shit the bed again, bitch!”

“She’s your kid too,” the woman replied despondently. “You gonna change her diaper?”

“Shut the fuck up,” he said, “You can’t keep the damn kid quiet, you shut your fucking mouth, whore.”

“Asshole,” she shot back, and turned her back on him, on us, and walked out of our room.

He turned back to us, a sneer on his face. Our cries got louder. “Mama!” we cried, our voice shrill as terror lanced through us.

“I told you to shut the fuck up!” he growled, and his arm came down with a snap. The leather end of his belt caught us on our bare back, leaving a line of agonizing fire in its wake. We screamed, calling for our mother again. But she didn’t come. He hit us again. No one came. The crushing loneliness loomed larger than the man with the belt. No one came. We were alone.

No.

It was the same quiet defiance that had stopped her from dying peacefully the night before. It was her refusal to give in, to surrender this perfect little body. This marvelous gift that she had refused to abandon, but, I now realized, that she was allowing me to share. This gift that the man was hurting, beating over and over with that hateful leather belt. He meant to break her, to break her body and her spirit, to make her feel alone and unloved.

And he’d almost won. If not for me, if not for the way she’d accepted, welcomed me into her self, he would have won. It struck me as the worst kind of wrong that her only recourse from consummate loneliness was to bargain with one such as myself . . . but then, she hadn’t bargained, had she? She’d simply loved.

And because of that love, she was not alone. Whatever else happened, she had me, not the man with the belt, not the careless woman with the cigarette, not the people who should be protecting her from harm. She had me, a wasted spirit, an angry demon . . . but she was not alone. He could break her body, but she need never again despair. He would never break this child’s beautiful spirit.

No, I replied, in that wordless way. No, you are not alone. We are together. Let me make him stop. Let me protect you.

She wept, inwardly and outwardly. The betrayal of her mother, the pain of her father . . . it hurt worse than the cut of the leather into our tender skin. Blood began to run down our back.

He does not deserve you, I said. Let me make him stop.

Yes, she said. And that was all I needed.

I drew upon thousands of years of experience and knowledge, and it was still the hardest thing I had ever done. Manipulating energy was relatively easy when one was little more than energy itself. When one was tied into a physical body . . . well, matter is still energy, but it is a different expression. In any case, it becomes much more difficult.

But I managed. I accelerated the movement of the molecules that made up his body. Not much, just enough to create a little extra friction, a little more heat.

He paused, his arm raised above his head, looking down at us as we cowered at his feet. “What—?” he asked, sweat already beading on his brow.

The baby had retreated into a safe place in our mind. I felt her cowering there, in the haven she’d constructed during previous beatings. I wrapped myself around her, not really knowing what I was doing, but wanting to insulate her from the ugliness outside our skin. She cuddled against me, and I found myself looking out of her eyes.

“You. Don’t hurt us,” I said, surprising myself. My voice was her voice, high and childlike, but the edge of hate and anger was all mine. The man stumbled backward.

“You’re fucking talking? What kind of trip is this?”

I merely smiled, and pushed just a tiny bit harder on his molecules.

He burst into flames. Inside our mind, her spirit curled farther into itself, sadness and pain radiating throughout our being.

No, I said. This is all me. You are innocent. I felt her acceptance of this truth, but she still remained curled and withdrawn.

That was fine, though, because we needed to get to safety. The fire from the man’s body was spreading, catching on the dirty carpet and running up into the sad curtains that framed my only window. I raided her muscle memory and made our body move, getting slowly to our feet and toddling out of the room. Our mother was nowhere to be found. Either she’d fled, and would live, or she lay passed out somewhere in the house and would burn to death. Either way, it was of no concern to me. She’d lost her rights to us.

The stairs opened up before us, dark and frightening. Bad things happened downstairs, the baby knew that from painful experience. She was supposed to stay in her room, no matter what. But I held her close and reminded her that she was not alone. I was here, and I would keep us safe. Slowly, slowly, she began to uncurl inside of us, trusting in the strange bond we shared.

We got down on our knees and slid down the stairs feet-first, our bare little toes reaching cautiously for the bottom. When we got there, we stood up, and went over to the table that held the phone.

I knew what it was, from my observations. I persuaded her to pull it down, using the cord as a handle. Then we pushed the buttons in succession: 9-1-1. I had spent countless hours watching people in the throes of their own personal nightmares push that sequence and beg for help from the other side. Sometimes it came in time, sometimes not. But tonight I would be the one begging. Tonight I hoped time was on our side.

“911, what is your emergency?” I heard the voice ask. The baby let me lead as we bent down and put our mouth next to the telephone.

“Fire,” I said through her lips.

“There is a fire? Where?”

“My house.”

“Do you know your address?”

“No.”

“Where are your parents?”

“Gone. Fire. Come please.”

“Okay, sweetheart,” the operator said. I noticed that her voice had taken on the sing-song tone that some adults used with children. I felt immediate contempt. She was a mere infant, compared to me . . .

All of a sudden, I felt myself shunted to the side. The baby was back in control, and I felt her sweet, implacable spirit wrap around me.

Let me back out, I raged at her, throwing my anger at her again. Once again, she took it, twisted it, used it to heal the cuts and welts that the man had left on her back and legs. Relief from the pain washed over me, silencing me instantly.

No. Be nice. It was an order unlike any I’d ever experienced. She was filled with love like steel, and it was unthinkable, impossible for me to do anything other than what she wished. I was trapped.

Let me out, I pleaded. I need to get us to safety.

No. There it was again. The quiet defiance and infinite love. Just as I’d absorbed her memory of how to walk, I felt her pull the thoughts from the core of me. We had to get safe. We had to leave the phone off the hook. We had to hide from the flames that had begun to consume the roof. We turned our head and our gaze fell on the filthy plastic flap that had once been a doggie door. She turned back to the phone.

“Ok. Bye!” she said, her voice cheerful without my rage around the edges.

“No, sweetheart, don’t hang up! We have firetrucks on their way . . . sweetheart . . . ?” the operator’s voice trailed off as we got to our feet again and walked across the slippery kitchen floor to the doggie door. We pushed it open with our hands and started to crawl through. The flap fell hard on our back, and I felt her surge of gratitude for the energy I’d thrown at her earlier. I’d tried to strike out at her, and she’d turned it into an act of love and healing. I pulled back, angry, but she refused to let me go.

No, she said. Never alone. You have me.

I felt her love wrap around me, cherishing me and my presence, and once again, I felt paralyzed with confusion. I had her? What could that mean?

While I was utterly undone by these thoughts, we pushed through the doggie door and toddled out into the bright sunshine. The backyard was an untended lot of broken bottles, discarded wire, dirt and weeds, but the sunlight felt good on our skin. We walked carefully to a bare spot in the dirt and sat down, waiting. The distant wail of a siren split the air, followed by another. Flames licked at the roof, and thick black smoke poured through the upstairs windows.

I have you? I asked tentatively. I felt our lips curl in a smile.

Yes. And I have you. She thought back. The joy of it all came crashing back down on us, as pure and as piercing as the light on our skin. I love you. Thank you.

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I had learned to articulate words from the language percolating in her brain. She didn’t have any words that came close to expressing the atom-deep sense of need, obligation, fear and connection that rocked through me. I, who had turned my back on everything good so long ago . . . I was loved. I was no longer alone. She had well and truly captured me. I couldn’t think of leaving her, or of taking her body from her, even if I had been able to overcome her defiant strength. I was hers, utterly.

And for the first time in eons, I was happy.

A heavy tread came from the side of the house. We looked up to see a man in full firefighter gear coming toward us. He lifted his face shield as he approached.

“Guys, I got a kid back here!” he called over his shoulder. Then he slowed and removed his helmet entirely. “Hi sweetheart,” he said, his voice gentle.

“Hi!” she said sweetly, smiling at him.

“Are you okay?”

“Yep! Fire.”

“Yes, there’s a fire. I’m going to take you out to the firetruck, okay? I’m going to keep you safe.”

A pulse of rage went through me. I kept her safe! She laughed out loud and held up her arms to the firefighter, reassuring me with her love.

I will let him take us, because I am not afraid, she said to me in that wordless way. He will take us someplace nice. Or not, but it doesn’t matter. I have you, and you will keep me safe. So he will take care of us for a little while. If he hurts us, you will stop him. We are not alone.

We are never alone, I answered her, and it was an affirmation and a promise. I would keep her safe, and I would never let her feel alone.

***

Jessica Novatny from Child Protective Services closed the file slowly.

“Well,” she said, looking up at the man who sat across from her. He wore his firefighter’s uniform and held the toddler in question on his lap. “I must say, I’m pleased that this has all worked out for the best, though it is a bit . . . unorthodox.”

“I know, ma’am,” the firefighter said. “But it just seemed right. When no family came forward to claim her, I knew that Anahera needed a good home. And I know I’m not married or anything, but the guys at the station all support me. She’ll grow up with about fifty uncles and hundreds of cousins looking out for her. We’re a very tight-knit group. She’ll never be alone.”

The toddler on his lap turned and smiled at Jessica, and for no reason she could name, the CPS caseworker felt a shiver go down her spine.

“Excellent,” she said, trying to get her mind back on track. “And, aside from the incident with the dog, there have been no other issues?”

The firefighter smiled ruefully and shrugged one shoulder. “Nope, just that one. Poor old Butch. He always seemed to like kids, but I guess he couldn’t handle me giving Ana so much attention. I found him a good home with a nice retired couple.”

“Very well. My congratulations, Mr. Katoa. You and Anahera seem well suited. Please don’t hesitate to contact my office if you have any questions or needs. Your final adoption paperwork will be in the mail.”

Dennis Katoa, firefighter, stood up and lifted the little girl he’d found in the backyard of a burning crackhouse. She wrapped her arms around his neck and laid her blonde head on his shoulder. He stroked her head softly, a look of wonder on his face.

“Thank you, Ms. Novatny,” the new father said. “You’ve been very helpful. It’s been so nice to know that we’re not in this alone.”

Copyright © 2026 by Kacey Ezell

Kacey Ezell writes emotionally charged adventure fantasy and science fiction. She is a two-time Dragon Award Finalist for Best Alternate History and won the 2018 Year’s Best Military and Adventure Science Fiction Readers’ Choice Award. She has written multiple best-selling novels published with Chris Kennedy Publishing, Baen Books, and Blackstone Publishing. Additionally, she is a retired helicopter pilot with 3000+ hours in the UH-1N Huey, Mi-171, and EC130 helicopters. She is married with two daughters. You can join her fan community and get free stories at kaceyezell.net/the-dragons-horde/