Dragon Fires Everywhere, page 11
“Another Cold Moon Ball packed to the gills,” Carol says cheerfully. I can’t stop staring at how happy and bright she looks, especially when she beams at Emerson. “Another festival triumph for you.”
“You look like a big, ripe peach,” Maeve coos at Ellowyn and her big belly. “Aren’t you darling.”
Ellowyn freezes with an expression on her face that would have anyone normal running for cover, but this is the Joywood. I watch her visibly control herself, and somehow not punch Maeve in the face.
Instead, she gets that familiar, faraway look of hers. “Did you know that during the 1600s, men were the ones who started wearing high heels? Women only started wearing them to seem more masculine.”
Felicia turns to me as Festus frowns at Ellowyn. “You’re the big star of the show tonight, dearest Georgie, and don’t you look pretty.”
Dearest Georgie? I stare at her for a full moment before I manage to squeak out a “Thank you.”
The Joywood complimenting us and attempting endearments when they’ve been actively trying to murder us all year is too weird. I don’t like it. I can tell that everyone else is equally unnerved. Zander puts himself between the ripeness of Ellowyn and the other coven. Frost looks cold and dangerous. Azrael is wearing a frown that a wise man would take as the warning it is. Jacob, Rebekah, and I hold ourselves like we’re ready for an attack.
Emerson, on the other hand, nods as if these are really compliments and are exactly our due. She always has been better at politics.
“Enjoy yourselves tonight, gang,” Gil says merrily.
Having never called us gang before. Ever.
Carol lifts a glass of champagne as if in a toast. “I’m sure everything will go swimmingly.”
They all laugh gaily—it’s blood-chilling, frankly—and then they turn and leave just the way they came. In shuffling half-disarray.
“Something weird is going on. I don’t think I’ve heard them say anything overtly menacing since Georgie got back,” Ellowyn says, glaring at Maeve’s back. “That’s not like them.”
“Not even the usual dirty looks,” Rebekah adds, watching with great suspicion as Felicia leans over to whisper something to Festus.
“Maybe it’s just an act so everyone thinks they’re fine with the transfer of power after their temper tantrum on Samhain,” Emerson says, but her nose is wrinkled like she doesn’t quite believe it.
You need your fabulae for the spell, Azrael says in our coven channel. I don’t recall anyone inviting him to it, but here he is. And they know it. They’re expecting you to fail the spell tonight.
He sounds bored, likely because he’s busy plucking three pigs in a blanket from a tray that moves by us. He tosses all three into his mouth at the same time and chews with obvious satisfaction.
We all turn and stare at Azrael. He hasn’t talked to us like this before, and he isn’t officially a member of the Riverwood, as far as I know, so he shouldn’t be able to.
But his ability to appear in all our heads says otherwise. And I suppose we don’t really know how one goes about becoming an official member when a coven has already won the ascension trials.
He looks back, unfazed. “I thought that was obvious.”
And now that he’s pointed it out, it sure seems obvious. I’m not sure why I didn’t think of that myself.
I’m sure it had nothing to do with being distracted by soaring flights and the hottest man I’ve ever laid eyes on.
So if we do the spell and succeed, the Joywood will know we’ve unearthed a magical creature? I ask.
Azrael nods absently, his attention on another waiter bearing a tray of what look like cheese puffs. Maybe they won’t know. But they will surmise it, and with their black magic affinity, probably get to the bottom of things. Because the spell can only work with a true coven.
But if we do the spell without Azrael and fail, everyone will think we’re as weak as the Joywood have always claimed we are, Emerson says to us, darkly, while smiling at another local business owner and asking after her restaurant.
“You know I love your new lunch menu, Corinne,” she says out loud, with a laugh. “I may or may not dream about your eggs Benedict sandwich nightly.”
Beside her, somehow looking as if the only thought in his head is this party, Jacob smiles too.
The rest of us try to look like we’re not shocked. Though maybe we’re not, not really. We’re so used to roadblocks that at this point, anything easy would feel like a trap. This is almost a relief. A nice Joywood is terrifying, and I, for one, find it a comfort that they’re just being dicks.
I can tell Emerson is considering a bunch of different options as she continues to chat with all the human and witch citizens who come to say hello to her. I can see Ellowyn’s mouth move the way it does when she’s devising new tea and potion recipes, her fingers twitching, which is a good indication she’s putting potions together from afar.
Like me, I imagine we’re all dismissing any ideas we come up with, because this is such a complicated situation.
But clearly we can’t do the spell in front of the Joywood.
And just as clearly, I think as Emerson and Jacob turn back to us, we can’t let anyone guess that we’re having a feverish private discussion over here.
“I’ll take the fall,” I offer.
“What do you mean?” Emerson demands.
I ignore the golden-black eyes that immediately light up the side of my face.
I’ll dramatically realize I missed something. I’ll say Happy Ambrose’s notes weren’t clear. Big smile. Silly laugh. Dumb Georgie.
“No one thinks you’re dumb,” Azrael says, with heat. Maybe with disgust—enough that everyone else kind of . . . blinks at him. Then exchange more of those glances I hate.
“That’s the point,” I hurry to say. “Everyone thinks I’m airy and dreamy. It’s easy to believe that I just missed one of the keys because I was off in fantasyland. Because when am I not?” Just ask my mother. She’ll tell you I live there. “It buys us some time.”
“But how much time?” Emerson shakes her head. “We have to do the ritual tonight.”
We could do it in secret, I respond to all of them.
Emerson frowns. I can tell she doesn’t like the idea, but it makes sense to me. We have to hide Azrael from the Joywood. There’s no option there.
Or, Azrael says, drawing the word out lazily, you could refrain from hurling yourself on an unnecessary sacrificial pyre and do the sensible thing.
He is now sipping from a champagne glass I’m not sure how he got. I didn’t see anyone offer him one. It’s festive, festooned with cranberries and little sprigs of mint. It should look ridiculous in his huge hand.
It does not.
“I’m afraid to ask what you think is sensible,” I manage to say from between gritted teeth. Gritted teeth in the shape of a smile, that is. I’m not an animal.
The artifacts, Azrael says in all our heads.
What artifacts? Ellowyn asks. Georgie is the artifact expert around here.
Azrael waves down another passing waiter and simply liberates the woman’s tray. Even before we were killed, cursed, and the like, there were witches who liked to collect things from magical creatures. Unicorn horns. Dragon tears. Fairy wings.
He pops the appetizers into his mouth without offering any around, or even acting like what he’s doing is strange. If asked, I plan to shrug and remind folks that he’s a Brit, supposedly. Who knows what they do over there?
Frost begins to slowly nod. Yes, I remember something about an adze fang someone I knew claimed to have seen. Among other things.
I straighten because I heard a rumor about an adze fang when I was in Ghana, gathering one of the keys.
We procure one of these, claim it has the magic of a fabulae imbued on it, and then the spell can go off without the Joywood suspecting a thing, Azrael says, sounding even lazier, probably because that’s actually malice and aimed at Frost.
But it’s also a great idea.
Wouldn’t they suspect something since even knowing we need an artifact means we know we need a magical creature? Zander asks.
Georgie will tell everyone she’s been researching. Azrael sounds impatient in our heads, but all I can think about is how strange it is that he called me Georgie instead of Georgina. It makes me feel funny.
I don’t like it.
As she has, in fact, been lost in her research, she can simply say she discovered references to the powers imbued in these artifacts. That’s the sort of thing that’s in Frost’s library, isn’t it? Azrael looks at me, almost accusingly. “Everyone knows Georgie’s penchant for fairy tales and other such stories. Why wouldn’t she discover these things?”
I don’t like him calling me Georgie any better out loud, I find. So much so that I barely have time to worry over the fairy-tale reference and the image of that new cover in my mind.
Goddess, what I would do to feel his mouth on my—
But we don’t have time, Jacob says, snapping me back to the here and now. How can we find out where these artifacts are, go get them, and bring them back so fast? He shakes his head. “The ritual must be done tonight.”
“Hello, we could lie.” Rebekah rolls her eyes. “There are no points for purity in a fight for the fate of the world, are there?” We conjure something up. Have Azrael give it some magic. Done.
“I support this plan completely,” Ellowyn says, her eyes narrowed in the direction of the Joywood.
But I’m shaking my head, because we don’t need to go to such lengths. “It’s okay. I know where they are.”
Everyone’s gaze moves from Rebekah—and Azrael—to me, and suddenly I wish I still felt that sense of dislocation. Instead of being in the hot seat.
Every single library or archive I visited to get the keys had its own rumor about magical artifacts. That’s how I tracked them down so quickly. I just mapped out all the ones that I could find rumors about and went there.
But it dawns on me that when I mapped them all out, my travel route formed an eight, an infinity . . . with St. Cyprian at the center.
I thought it was just a number then, but now I realize it’s not.
It was a message. One about true covens.
The Joywood are watching, Zander points out. They’ll notice if one of us leaves. Worse, they’ll follow, and we don’t want them figuring what we’re up to.
But we have a secret weapon, don’t we? I look up at Azrael. “They’ll pay attention to us, but not to Pete from London.”
Azrael’s grin is slow, and maybe only I can see the dragon flickering behind it. “I’m a tiny Anglo-Saxonish human, pale and wan and easily overlooked as I wander about, doing incomprehensible British things.”
Zander laughs, then frowns like he didn’t mean to.
All right. We’ll split up, Emerson says, laying out the plan. Do rounds. Dance. Enjoy. Azrael will slip away once he’s sure no one’s paying attention to him, get an artifact, and bring it back before midnight.
We all nod in agreement, then begin to pair off. Jacob and Emerson go out and dance. Zander heads off to get Ellowyn food before she incinerates someone with her hangry gaze—or her inability to speak anything but the truth. Rebekah sits with her while Frost stalks about the perimeter, clearly intimidating everyone he passes.
It occurs to me that he enjoys it, that this is what Rebekah means when she claims he’s funny. He’s like Darcy at the country dance and everyone flutters about in his wake—and he knows it.
I’m almost smiling myself when my scan of the party leads me to my parents.
I haven’t spoken to them since I got back. I could pretend I’ve been busy. I have been busy. But more importantly, I’ve also been avoiding them.
Tonight’s a good night to approach them, I think. We’re in public, and Pendells don’t draw attention to themselves in public.
“My parents are here,” I say to Azrael. Excuse me, to Pete. “I should go say hi.”
Azrael gets that shifty sort of look on his face, the way he did when he talked about my parents’ friendship with the Wildes. “I’ll take the opportunity to wander off and then not return for a bit.”
I’m frowning at my parents, but I turn it on him. “Are you sure you should disappear so soon?”
“The sooner I’m off, the sooner I can be back.” He shrugs, but that grin tells me he’s looking forward to his mission tonight. “Who knows what trouble I might run into?”
I frown harder at him, but his gaze is on my parents as he bends over and brushes a kiss across my cheek.
Because that’s the ruse, I remind myself as my entire body shivers into wildfire and longing. We’re supposed to be a couple. And couples kiss. There is no need to ignite in the middle of the holiday party.
No need for wild daydreams about fate.
My fake boyfriend looks down at me, a flash of another fire, like something is confirmed. Then he prowls off. And when I turn to look back at my parents, I can see my mother heading toward me in her usual forthright, prow-of-a-ship way, my father trailing behind.
I fix a bright smile on my face. “Mom. Dad.”
“Georgina,” Mom replies, and there’s a very distinct difference between the way she says my full name and the way Azrael says it. She is full of cold disdain, not all that lovely spark and flame.
But there’s no point thinking of dragons who aren’t in the room. “It’s good to see you.”
Mom’s smile is frigid, as usual. “Is it? It seems to me that if that were true, we would have seen you before now.”
She leans forward, and there’s that brittle anger swathed all around her that I haven’t seen in a while. Mostly because I avoid it—and her—but also because being part of the lead coven is kind of a big deal. Even to her. I was beginning to imagine that she might actually be proud of me for once.
“Did I just see you . . . kissing a human?” she asks in a horrified tone.
I stare at her blankly. Azrael barely kissed my cheek.
“I’ll have to introduce you to Pete some other time,” I say. “He wasn’t feeling well. Too much American food, I think. Did I mention I met him in England?”
“Pete,” my mother echoes. “Of course it’s a Pete from England. I need a drink.”
But when she marches off, Dad remains. I give him a real smile. I may not understand why he stays with my mother, but he’s always been my soft place to land. I’m grateful for him.
“I already met my reading goal for the year,” he says, as if the entire interaction with my mother didn’t happen. “Isn’t that something?”
I rest my arm across his shoulders. “It is quite the achievement. What was the best one?”
He tells me about some thousand-page tome from the fourteenth century, and normally I would listen intently, but I’m thinking about a million other things tonight. Azrael and magical creatures. Artifacts and spells. Cold Moons and long, dark nights, some of them spent high in the sky, surrounded by stars.
Dad gives me a little squeeze. “I should head back to your mother. It was good to catch up, princess.”
“You too, Dad. Once we’re fully ascended, you’ll have to come by and see the archives.”
He nods, but pauses. And he doesn’t leave or take his arm from around my waist. “Just remember, when you get all those facts you’re so fond of, not to forget that facts are not always the whole story.”
I stare at him. “What does that mean?”
Dad squeezes me again, an odd expression on his sweet face. “You’ll always be my little princess.”
He says this like he’s saying goodbye. “Hey,” I say. “Is everything okay?”
“Of course it is.” But he looks sad now. I’m sure he does, even through the smile. “I’m proud of you and your coven. It’s making me sentimental.”
I guess that makes sense, but the interaction still leaves me feeling . . . off.
As my father shuffles off to find my mother, I see Dane and Cailee Blanchard walk in, arm in arm, wreathed in smiles. I bet that to everyone in the room they probably look like the perfect, happy couple—if you like that kind of smug blondness.
But I know they’re not.
Everything in me feels tight, constricted. I know Azrael has flown off to hunt down some artifact. The Joywood are watching our every move. And my mother is performatively nursing the one drink she will allow herself all night, the better to watch everyone else and shred them to pieces—with facts, only the cold, hard facts—when she gets home.
I need some air. The Joywood might think it’s fishy, but if they follow me out the side door or send one of their sickly familiars, all they will see is a woman in desperate need of some breathing room and solitude.
I make my way outside, ditzing my way past anyone who wants to talk to me. As soon as I make it outside, I gulp in a deep breath of the icy air. Once. Again.
Everything is going as it should. Everything is good. We will get the artifact, do the spell, and I will finally have access to the archives reserved for the ruling coven only. I will finally have all the knowledge.
My father’s words about facts and truth and stories come back to me, but I don’t want to think about that. About complications and difficulties.
Truth is the answer. Always.
I take a deep breath and look out into the early December night. Moonlight dapples the surface of the river. In the distance, I can see the pulse and twining of the other two as they braid together into the confluence, brimming with magic and light. That’s the reason we’re all here, fighting to make it the way it should be.
Not the way it’s been for as long as I can remember.
And the longer I stand there, the more it’s like the rivers are singing a little song. But I can’t quite hear it. The melody is haunting, and I think that really, I should get closer and then maybe—
“Georgie.”
I turn and there’s Sage.
12
I knew this was a possibility. Witches in St. Cyprian don’t tend to skip the Cold Moon Ball. But I didn’t really think Sage would . . . come find me, alone or otherwise. I didn’t think he’d bother.
