Dragon Fires Everywhere, page 12
He looks at me with great import, a look I am actually delighted that I no longer have to respond to with feigned interest. “We need to talk.”
“About what?” I cannot fathom what there could possibly be to discuss. “You can magic anything I left at your place back to Wilde House. I think I left my copy of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man behind.”
Although, on second thought, he can keep that. I don’t ever want to pretend I care about James Joyce again.
“Georgie.” And I always heard that faint note of disapproval in his voice. Maybe I wanted it there, because I’ve always liked a project I could, with effort, get high marks on. But tonight it grates. “Who were you with back there?”
My eyebrows rise so far up it feels as though they might shoot off my head. “I beg your pardon?”
“That man. Kissing your cheek.”
He is not kidding. He looks dead serious. He looks affronted.
I stare at Sage, and now that he is not half naked and bucking about on Cailee Blanchard, I really take him in. The tall, reedy frame. The ridiculous bow tie he thinks makes him look important and interesting. The wire-framed glasses I know he doesn’t actually need. I think of every lecture he gave me on the environmental impact of beef when I just wanted to eat a damn hamburger, or why Jane Eyre shouldn’t really be considered a classic because it’s actually regressive and not at all feminist when he knew it’s one of my favorite books anyway, or why the discordant, experimental music he listens to and claims to be inspired by was far, far superior to any music I like—the kind with a melody.
I realize in this moment that I put up with him simply because I thought he was someone my mother would like. Someone who would earn me a certain kind of response from her. An acknowledgment, almost. See, Mom, I do not in fact think I’m special if I think I belong with this man.
My mother. The project I’ve been working on all my life, with only low marks to show for it.
Yeah, my mother really did a number on me.
That gross, sick feeling in my stomach gets worse, because Sage is still standing there, and I am . . . so stupid. Just so stupid. I didn’t listen to my friends because I didn’t think they understood. And they didn’t.
Because they love me, not who they want me to be.
“Sage, this isn’t the time or place,” I say, as kindly as I can manage. After all, there’s no point making a scene. That much of the family code I agree with. “I have an important ceremony to prepare for, and I needed a little fresh air to center myself. Go back inside.”
He does not do that. Instead, he moves closer to me. “I think we have an opportunity here, Georgie.”
I’m so confused by that, I make the mistake of saying, “What?”
Instead of telling him to go to hell.
“We’ve hit a rough patch,” he says in that way he has, like he alone can see across the expanse of my foolishness. And like he deserves a medal for having to work so hard. “We both made some mistakes, but I think that gives us an opportunity to be mature. To grow. Together. We’ll only be stronger once we deal with this.”
And the way he smiles catches at me, deep inside. Because he thinks that’s all that needs to be said. He thinks he’s got this. Me.
He thinks he’s got me.
“Once we deal with this,” I repeat, slowly. “And, to clarify, the this you’re talking about is when I caught you inside another woman, Sage? A married woman? When you and I were still together and had decided to be exclusive? Is that what you think will make us stronger?”
He looks around a little guiltily, like he’s worried someone’s out here listening for his secrets, and I kind of hope they are. I’m pretty sure Dane Blanchard would beat Sage into a bloody pulp if he got the urge, and certainly if he’d seen what I saw.
Obviously deciding we’re in the clear, Sage looks back at me. “We can learn something from that, can’t we?”
“I did learn something from that,” I reply, with the earnest nod I perfected and used to give him during his insipid lectures, usually brought on by someone else’s words. That he heard or read somewhere, or saw on the internet. So desperate to think the right things and be seen as correct by the right people—and I guess the joke was on me, because I thought someone like that would get me right too, in the eyes of all those people.
And ouch. The self-realization in a breakup is not fun.
“I don’t want to be with you, Sage,” I tell him, because I am actually an adult. No matter that I doubt it sometimes and feel that everyone else does too. “Even if you hadn’t cheated on me, this would be over. I don’t want a relationship with someone who could betray me like that and act like it never happened.”
He looks at me like I’ve broken his favorite toy, or maybe insulted James Joyce outright—hurt, but also indignant. And I almost feel sorry for him, because I can see now, with all that lovely hindsight, that he doesn’t have real friends or even an inner life. He has nothing to help him see how pointless it all is, desperately feeling around for a sense of importance or propriety from other people.
A lesson I’ve taken a long time to learn, but I’m determined to finally learn it. I’m about to be the Historian, and I can’t have mommy issues. That would make me no better than that weaselly Skip . . .
The last name escapes me, a memory that becomes hazy and as I try to grasp for it, slips away. Like a spell, but I forget all about that because Sage lurches forward and puts his hand on my arm. I don’t like the way he grips me—and I don’t want Cailee’s leftovers, thank you.
Yet when I try to yank my arm back, he doesn’t let go.
I yank again, and he holds on, and the thing is—he’s not that strong. I shouldn’t need to use magic to push him off me. I’ve never known Sage to have a grip, and I stare down at his hand—
But that’s all the reaction I have time for.
Because there’s a flash of something, and it smells like burning. Smoke twirls around in the moonlight, and then Azrael is here.
And Sage is dangling about a foot off the ground.
That dangerous dragon gold has taken over Azrael’s gaze, and his hand is around Sage’s neck. It’s as though Sage weighs about as much as a feather.
Sage struggles against the hold, his usual superior expression giving way to red everywhere and panic around the eyes.
But I’m not that concerned about Azrael choking Sage, because it looks like he’s about to incinerate the guy on the spot. That’s what has me intervening.
You can’t kill him! I shout into his head.
“Why not?” Azrael says to me out loud, and notably without a British accent. “He put his hands on you.”
I have similar hard feelings about that, but I’m not a member of the Joywood. “It’s against the law, for one thing.”
Maybe for witches. But if you recall, I’m a dragon.
“Pete,” I throw at him from between gritted teeth, because as much as I can admit I’m not hating this—it feels a lot like justice, and it’s even a bit thrilling—we have appearances to keep up. More importantly, we aren’t evil. “Put him down.” You’re supposed to be wan and British, remember?
He sighs. “Very well.” The accent is back.
Sage falls in a heap on the ground, gasping and panting. He looks from Azrael to me, and his gaze darkens.
“Cailee was right. You were cheating.”
I’d love to maintain my innocence, but what’s the point? My innocence doesn’t really matter to him, any more than his cheating mattered to me. That’s the part that’s really sad. “You can call it whatever you want, Sage. It’s over.”
Sage gets to his feet, brushing dirt and grass off his pants. He looks at me with more anger and even hate than I would have imagined he had in him. And it’s hard for me to understand why a guy who cheated on me would care what I do, when here I am, setting him free with no fight or even an unpleasant scene. He should be thanking me.
Instead, he looks darker than I’ve ever seen him. “I should have known it was all an act. At heart, you’re nothing but a dumb, dirty—”
Azrael leans forward. Sage scrambles back.
“Think very carefully what word you want to use in front of me, friend,” Azrael says, all dragon and warning. But also with his British accent, I’ll give him that.
Sage lifts his chin, but it’s not really the show of courage or defiance I know he imagines it is, because he’s backing toward the door that leads inside. “I’m not your friend.”
“In what universe would you imagine you could be?” Azrael asks, laughing in a way that raises the hair on the back of my neck.
Then he lifts an eyebrow, that’s all—and Sage practically falls all over himself to scramble inside.
It would be incredibly satisfying to let Azrael play with him a little, but that’s unworthy of me. Or so I tell myself. And I almost mention it, but I hear that song from the river again, faintly.
I turn my head, straining to hear it.
“What are you doing?” Azrael demands, scowling down at me.
“Nothing.” I’m looking out at the confluence, like maybe I can see the song if I look hard enough. “I came out for some fresh air, and there was Sage. You know the rest.”
What is that melody? I swear I’ve heard it before. I know I have. I can almost hum it—
“What crystals are you wearing?” Azrael demands, sounding angry.
I pull my attention away from the song. I put my hand to my necklace. “The ones you gave me.”
“No others?”
I pat the pocket in my dress. “A few others.”
“Which ones?”
“For the ceremony tonight. Smoky quartz, malachite, sodalite. The usual.”
His scowl only deepens. “You need a better anchor.” He glances out at the river, but only for a second. “You need to carry something for protection.”
“Against Sage?” I laugh. “I enjoyed watching you step in and all, but I could have handled him if I’d needed to. He’s not complicated. Trust me.”
He says nothing, but he’s glaring at me, and I don’t understand why.
“Did you get the artifact?” I ask, worried that something went wrong there and that’s why he’s so upset. He can’t really be mad I stopped him from murder. Can he?
“I got it,” he says, but darkly.
I’m going to ask him why he’s still so grumpy then, but he produces a long, slim box made of glass. Inside is a golden horn.
Everything else in my head simply evaporates as I stare at it.
It’s real. I can tell it’s real.
“A unicorn horn,” I say on an exhale, mesmerized by the way the moonlight catches all that gold, which should seem unnatural but doesn’t. “I can . . . feel it.” It’s not like Azrael’s magic, dark and smoky. It’s like a prism, and it hums around the box in a kaleidoscope of magic.
I look up at Azrael, excitement making me want to laugh or dance. We did it. But the we has me thinking of the coven, and remembering . . .
“This isn’t the unicorn Frost . . . maybe . . .” I can’t say it.
Azrael sighs deeply. “Of course not. The artifacts are not made from mutilated, murdered fabulae. That could only be dark blood magic. These artifacts only retain their magic if they’re given of a creature’s free will. Usually toward the end of their lives. That’s why there are so few of them. Don’t you think the Joywood would have a trove of them otherwise?”
I want to reach out and touch it, but the glass is protecting it, and more, I can feel the spells keeping watch over it too.
“Only magical creatures can move it, wield it,” Azrael tells me. “Magical creatures, and those witches who are given specific permission to carry such an honor.”
I manage to tear my gaze from the horn, to meet his golden, gleaming stare. My hands itch to touch, I want to beg him to give me permission, but . . .
“Emerson, obviously, should—”
But he’s shaking his head. “Georgina, it’s you.”
I swallow at the sudden lump in my throat. At the weight of the responsibility he’s just laid across my shoulders. It’s not that I don’t want it, but it feels overwhelming for a minute. Like Felicia said, I am the star of the show tonight. This is about archives, and a Historian has to be a good, intuitive researcher to track down the keys at all.
Tonight is my domain.
And tonight is why the Joywood never had to target me the way they did my friends. There was never any need. They knew this ceremony was a fail-safe. Without a magical creature—or the knowledge that magical creatures were real and some had left artifacts behind in anticipation of their approaching deaths—they didn’t have to come after me.
All they had to do was wait for me to fail tonight, and better yet, have no idea why—because they hid their tracks long ago.
But I’m not going to fail now, thanks to this artifact.
Thanks to Azrael.
“How do I ask for permission?”
“You do not have to ask,” he says, his voice strangely husky.
He holds out the glass case to me, his gaze never leaving mine. I have to take a deep breath to steady my shaking hands. Then I reach out to take it from him.
For a moment, we’re both holding it. I can feel magic pulsing around us. His. The unicorn’s. Mine.
Inside me. Outside me.
If there’s a song at the confluence, I can’t hear it.
For a moment, it’s just us.
A melody I know as well as my own heart, my own breath.
Then Azrael releases the case, and it’s in my hands alone. I have to work to steady my breath. To do something about my heart rate.
“Send it to wherever you’re keeping the keys,” Azrael instructs me. “You won’t reveal it until right before you start the ritual.”
I nod. I’m feeling more . . . fragile. Like one wrong move won’t just ruin everything, but will shatter the amazing magic I’ve been trusted with.
And I’m not sure which one would devastate me more.
Still, I close my eyes. I center my magic. And then I send the horn to stay with the keys until it’s time.
When I open my eyes, Azrael is staring at me. The intensity isn’t new. I’ve caught him staring at me like that before. It’s more that I’m having a harder and harder time convincing myself it doesn’t mean . . . exactly what I feel like it means.
What I’m no longer so sure I want to pretend I don’t know it means.
Inside, I am nothing but longing and fire and fate. That same sense that my life was leading me straight here, to him, all along. That everything about this is inevitable. That the only reason he is not rushing in is that he already knows where we’re going.
Even a few days ago, that made me feel uncertain, but it doesn’t tonight.
It feels like confirmation.
“There’s not much time left of this ball,” Azrael says, and I’m not sure he’s ever sounded so calmly serious. Like every move we make is weighty. “Let’s go back in.”
I nod again. Finding my voice seems impossible. So we walk back inside together.
I meet Emerson’s gaze across the room. She notices Azrael, then looks at me expectantly.
We’ve got it, I send to her.
She gives me a discreet little fist pump, which eases some of the tension inside me. We’ve got this. I know we do. We were meant for this.
Azrael’s hand is suddenly on my back, directing me not toward Emerson, but to the little dance floor.
“We should dance,” he says in my ear, creating a cascade of sparkling shivers through me.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, a mental image of that book cover pops into my head. It is emblazoned on my mind as we move to the music. But maybe this was all it meant. A dance while we’re pretending to be a couple, so no one knows what he is.
But I understand that’s not what it meant at all.
“You know what we are, Georgina,” he murmurs, making me startle in his arms. “You always have. You always will.”
I let my breath out, a long, slow shuddering. Inside me are all those daydreams. Passion and wild sex and laughter and longing and him. Us. This. You can’t just go cavorting around my thoughts.
“Think quieter, then,” he says pleasantly enough, and I’m all but plastered to his body while we sway to the music, and nothing I feel is quiet.
Still, I endeavor to do just that.
I try to empty my head of all thoughts.
Because the clock is striking down, fate is real, and it will be midnight soon enough.
13
The ball ends at eleven thirty, and even if humans were tempted to linger, something is in the air. It’s a magic prompt telling them to go home. I look meaningfully at Azrael, and he nods, because Peter the London Boyfriend is meant to be human too. He needs to make a show of leaving.
It would be embarrassing to admit how little I want him to leave, so I don’t. I don’t admit anything. Besides, it’s appropriate for me to be nervous about the ceremony.
Azrael steps back from me, letting go of me and ending all that dancing I can’t even begin to think about right now with a spell hanging over my head.
You won’t see me. You won’t feel me. But I’ll be there adding my magic as well.
I don’t know if he says this only in my head, or in the full group channel. He’s looking at only me as he lifts my hand and presses a kiss to it.
It should feel chaste. Fake. Even silly. A gesture in line with one of Sage’s bow ties.
It. Does. Not.
What it does instead is light me up and make me wonder what it would be like to truly feel a dragon’s fire—
But that, I tell myself sharply, is not helpful. I am about to lead a spell to open the archives I’ve been waiting my whole life to see. It’s no time for fairy tales, no matter how real they might be.
Azrael’s eyes gleam, and then he slips away, threading in and out of the packs of humans until he’s no longer inside. The witches are spilling out of the building as well, but the magic makes sure the humans don’t notice. They’re off to their homes or whatever else they do at eleven thirty at night, but we’re all headed to the same place: St. Cyprian’s first capitol building.
