Dragon Fires Everywhere, page 17
Once I’ve said absolutely everything I can think to say about a kitchen, with anecdotes about the warmth of Grandma Lillian Wilde—which, yes, I know will annoy Carol, who never liked her much and had a hand in her early death—I move through the rest of the downstairs, always watching Carol to see if there’s some other cursed magical creature I’ve never noticed before.
When we’re in the living room, she stands right on the rug. I see her dig her heel into the bird’s heart.
When we head upstairs, my nerves pick up. Because I don’t know for sure if Azrael is in the newel post, and I don’t dare look. I’m worried it will cause Carol to pay far too much attention.
But, in a move born out of habit more than purpose, I run my hand over the newel post as I start my ascent up the stairs. It’s warm again, that impossible heat I used to tell myself was my imagination. Now I know better.
Azrael.
But I can’t linger. Maybe it’s him. Maybe he’s simply sent his magic into the post. But he’s there in some way. I glance back and see Carol do the same thing I did.
Then she snatches her hand away, as though she’s been zapped with electricity.
I have to smother a smile.
Upstairs, I go through the same process. I answer questions from eager humans and keep my eye on Carol. There’s a lamp in the shape of a Piasa bird in the second-floor hall, but she seems more interested in looking out any windows that overlook the river.
I think back to this morning in my library. I thought I heard that same song that’s been teasing me lately floating up from the river. Does Carol hear it too?
And . . . is that good, or terrifying?
Maybe I need to find the source of it before she does. I should mention it at our next coven meeting.
When I finish the tour of the upper levels of the house, all securely magicked to be as impressive and anodyne as possible no matter who happens to be living here at any given time, I lead everyone back downstairs. Carol gives the dragon newel post a wide berth, but also a little smirk. As if she’s won.
I’m glad she thinks so.
Personally and strategically.
I herd the group out onto the sidewalk outside. “And now you’ll all head to the next stop on the tour, the Pendell home,” I say, and point toward my father, already standing out on his porch.
He waves. I wave back. We’ve done this for the past five years. I always follow up my wave by proudly telling the crowd my father is a fantastic historian—witches know this means his designation is Historian, not just that he likes to research arcane topics as many humans do in historic villages—and will have great information for them about the Pendell house.
But that man . . . is not my father. I don’t know what he is to me.
Knowing who I really am is tricky and hasn’t gotten any easier overnight, but I can’t even really sink into all the ramifications of that, because Carol stands right next to me.
“Did you enjoy your first foray into the archives?” she asks, as if we’re good friends and she’s deeply interested, not just evil. This close, I notice that her forehead is entirely smooth, like she finally succumbed to the spell version of Botox.
I play up that smile I’ve spent my whole life perfecting. “I did.”
“Do you still think the entire witching public should have access to everything?” She nods over at my father, who’s greeting the tour group.
I’m glad for all the years I spent pretending I don’t know what anyone’s talking about. Because her purposefully pointing out my parentage hurts, and I don’t like it. I haven’t figured out how to deal with it yet, and she’s known all along.
I’m a mix of furious and hurt and uncomfortable.
But my smile is sunshiny bright, because there’s a reason Carol has not used this secret against me—or Emerson, or Desmond, or whomever. I don’t know what it is yet, but I know it exists. “Yes, of course. Knowledge is power, Carol.”
“Say the power hungry.” She snorts, as if she’s made some hilarious joke. “I can just picture Emerson charging into those archives thinking she’d be able to get all sorts of answers.”
“Maybe she did.”
“Don’t lie, Georgie. It makes you look dimmer than usual. I know how the archives work. Only the Historian . . .” She trails off. There’s a moment where Carol Simon looks thoroughly shocked. Then furious.
“Only the Historian can what?” I ask innocently enough, but I think I know. Only the Historian can wield what’s inside the archives, something in me asserts, as if I have always known. I think back to last night and how Azrael . . . touched nothing. Only I did. Only I could.
That means Carol couldn’t either in all her long reign. And she didn’t want me to know that.
Which is maybe why I say the next thing, even though I know I shouldn’t poke a wounded animal. Because she might be losing her place as leader of the witching world, but I am not dim, and I know that there’s something in Carol that’s still dangerous.
But I don’t stop myself. “Then why did you kill your Historian, Carol?”
Her eyes narrow. Magic snaps in the depths, but it feels . . . weird in the air between us. Staticky and garbled.
I want to believe she’s truly weakening. I want to be amused by this pathetic attempt at being intimidating.
But there’s an unhinged desperation in her eyes, deep, deep down, that still manages to scare me.
“No coven really needs their Historian, Georgie. Don’t you know that by now?” She shakes her head as if she pities me. “Who needs knowledge when you control everything either way?”
I’m not sure that tactic ever would have worked on me, but it’s interesting how she keeps trying to use it on the women in our coven. So sure that if she can make us feel less than, we’ll cower.
We haven’t yet.
“This coven does,” I tell her. “Because our history, our knowledge—it’s going to be for everyone. And that is going to be our power. Not control. Not fear. Not lies.”
Then she smiles at me—my own tactic used against me. She leans in close, pats my arm. “Of course it will, Georgina. Of course.”
The way she drawls out my full name feels like a curse. Particularly when she walks away, whistling like something out of an old horror movie.
Then she just straight up cackles and disappears.
For a moment, I’m frozen. But I’m not just stiff. I’m cold. I want to go inside and sit by the fire. Or my dragon. I turn, but glance once more in my father’s direction.
Except the porch is empty and the door is closed. He’s inside, giving his tour. And I . . .
I don’t know what to do, or how to feel. All the determination I felt this morning feels off-kilter now that I’ve had a Carol run-in.
I walk back into Wilde House and still don’t feel any warmth. Even when I close the door behind me and lean against it.
Azrael swirls out of the newel post, this time with only a slight shaking.
He leaves it intact behind him, all that blue-and-green smoke pouring all around me, moving all over me like a caress.
Then he’s a man, rolling his shoulders and moving his neck from side to side, like being in the newel post was uncomfortable. He frowns down at me.
“You’re shaking.”
I hate that I am, but I like that he notices. That he notices everything. Though I can’t ignore the fact that Carol still trying to play her mind games really does make me feel a bit dim and slow, since we haven’t figured out what’s next. Sure, weak people use threats to feel powerful, but she still feels powerful. Even though we won. We beat her and her cronies fair and square. So . . .
“Why does it feel like it isn’t over?” I ask him as he comes closer. I lean against that hard wall of muscle that he calls a chest, trying to find some comfort in it. And I realize how often I have done this, come to my newel post for comfort. Not because I didn’t want to be a burden to my friends, or even honest with them, but because this always was comfort.
But his words aren’t comforting at all, even as his arms come around me and he tucks me in close.
“Because it isn’t,” he tells me, and I can feel the truth in the words the same as I can feel the rumble of them in his chest. “As long as they have access to dark magic, it’s not just not over. It’s dangerous. For everyone.”
17
I spend the next few days in the archives, but it’s not like that first night. The archives are being decidedly difficult. No more books appear and show off for me. I commune, I ask, I beg.
But they give me nothing.
I try to find information about next steps, about what happens on the solstice, and how to make sure the full power exchange happens.
I try to find books about dragons, past lives, and most importantly, dark magic.
“Maybe it’s a test,” I suggest to Octavius, who’s curled up in the middle of the table in the center of the room. A little shaft of light shines on him from the skylight above, and he’s basking in it.
He doesn’t offer anything in return, not even a feline show of support.
I don’t feel tested. I feel thwarted. Like the Joywood are dancing around in the stacks, hiding everything I need. Which makes it easier to pack up at night and head home.
I have no desire to dance with the Joywood.
Tonight, I decide to change my way home. Maybe I’m not getting anywhere in the archives because I’m following the same old patterns. Maybe I need to take a page out of Azrael’s book and upend everything.
The thought makes me smile, and I decide to take the longer walk back to Wilde House along the river path that humans—mostly—use to jog and cycle on.
I watch the river as I walk, my hands in my pockets against the cold. I’ve forgone the black jade rodent that looked a bit too much like Carol’s weasel and switched it out for a disc made of fluorite that I bought in Juneau. I curl my fingers around it now, still seeking that spiritual crystal guidance I’ve had trouble feeling since I returned from my trip.
My crystals and I just haven’t been on the right frequency ever since. Everything has felt off since I came back. I frown a little, trying to think back to anything that might have happened to ruin my balance. Sage and Cailee, obviously—except I felt off before I walked in on them. I went to Sage’s house because I already felt strange.
I hold the fluorite disc more tightly, but I still feel nothing. Nothing comes to mind to explain it. I stop walking, though, because what does come to mind is that melody.
Faint and just out of reach, as always.
But calling me, tugging me.
I realize then that I forgot to tell my coven about this. About Carol watching the rivers from the windows in Wilde House when she was there.
How did I forget? It feels imperative now.
If Carol hears this melody too, then surely I need to get to the source of it. I step off the paved path and take a few steps on the hard, cold ground. I frown down at the river and feel a shiver of fear when I see the water looks black again, the way it did before Emerson dived into the confluence and fought off the flood that would have killed us all.
This is a very bad sign. I should hurry home and tell everyone.
I’m sure that’s what I’ll do, but my feet take another few steps toward the water anyway. Because that melody is so close.
If I could make out the words, would that be the answer to everything? I just need a few words. Then I can—
My feet slide out from under me. I let out a screech. My butt hits the ground hard.
But then . . . nothing else happens.
I let out a surprised, relieved sort of laugh. I get my bearings, a little confused, but it was just a slip in the mud. I’m fine. Shaking my head, I try to push myself to my feet. Muddy and a little wet and feeling silly.
I’m just hoping that no one saw me bite it on the riverbank. That’s hardly the sort of dignified behavior witchdom is looking for in its newly elected—
But I can’t get up.
I struggle to move, to get my feet under me, but I can’t.
I can’t.
And the water is suddenly creeping up and over my legs. I try to shove myself back on my butt since I can’t seem to get to my feet, but the mud not only won’t let me go, it’s sucking me closer and closer to the water.
All that waiting black—
And maybe it’s an overreaction, but I try to reach out to my coven.
Only it doesn’t work. I can feel the magic deep in the center of me . . . stuck. Like something is blocking it from moving out.
Fear sinks its claws into me, because this is more than a slip in the mud, more than rising waters. I reach into my pocket, frantic for something that will help. I touch the fluorite disc, but it burns.
All of the crystals on my body begin to do the same. Pulsing and burning hot, but not in warning, not in comfort or guidance, not in anything good.
They are actually burning me.
Every single crystal on my body is like a fire, and their singing as they blaze through me, that same, terrible song—
Except the ring Azrael gave me.
I decide it’s my only hope. I hold it out, away from the water. But I know almost at once that it’s the wrong move, it’s not the answer. I have to use it.
With my ringed hand, I begin to slap at the black water as it seethes in closer. It doesn’t seem to do anything—
But the water isn’t rising anymore.
And then, deep inside that black, dangerous water, I see glowing eyes.
I freeze, because those eyes remind me of something in a cage—
But the memory is dim. Still, I know this is bad and wrong, as black tendrils of water begin to wrap around my legs and pull. Hard. I’m sliding in the mud, into the water and the vicious black.
Something in me screams. Maybe I do.
Then a roar thunders through the air above me.
I look up at the bright sky, and there is Azrael in his full dragon form, like he should definitely not be if we’re trying to keep him a secret.
But that’s only a fleeting thought, because I’m getting sucked into the water again. Azrael’s eyes blaze gold as he swoops down low along the surface of the water.
Fire roars out of his mouth in a dazzling dragon display. Something deep in the water screams in pain, but ribbons of black shoot out of the water and wrap around one of his wings. He shoots more fire, and the ribbons fall into the water with a slap. But then another band slithers up over my leg, pulling me so that I’m neck-deep in black, oily, churning water no attempts at swimming or magic can seem to disengage.
Azrael lands on the water, dragon claws flashing. He’s grappling with something, and then there’s a loud boom, almost as loud as Azrael’s roar.
I hear something high-pitched mixed in with the boom, like the crescendo to a terrible song, and then I can feel something break.
At last I’m able to scramble away from the water.
Which is just its normal brown again. I look around frantically and see my coven charging in. Azrael lands next to me, still in his dragon form.
His wing is bleeding. My lungs are burning.
“What happened?” Emerson demands, skidding to a kneeling halt next to me. She’s immediately whispering a spell to get me dry.
“It got away,” Azrael says disgustedly. When Jacob approaches his wing, he jerks it away. “A witch Healer can’t help me. See to Georgie.”
Jacob pauses, then turns to me. He kneels down next to me too. “Are you okay?”
I nod. “I’m fine. It just . . . tried to pull me in. Into the water.”
“She’s burned,” Azrael says flatly.
And only then do I remember the crystals. I hold out the hand that tried to grab the fluorite. There is indeed a burn there.
Jacob sets about to healing, and I would try to speak, try to understand what has happened, but a crowd has appeared. Made up of witches—Joywood and Riverwood supporters alike—who live in St. Cyprian and must have heard the commotion.
And who are now staring at Azrael, full-on dragon Azrael, with a mix of awe, shock, and fear. Mostly fear.
This isn’t the worst thing in the world, I tell myself. It’s fine. It’s just a dragon. We all wield magic, and a dragon is just a step away from that.
Everything is okay, I tell myself.
Until the Joywood charge through the middle of the crowd, right at us.
18
Azrael.
He looks over at me. There is a kind of resigned fury in his gaze. As if he knew this would happen, and more, that there is no stopping this moment.
As if we have lived this life before.
And there is only ruin ahead.
My heart plummets, hard and fast. I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it, and yet my emotions don’t seem to get that message.
Maybe the giant fire-breathing dragon could change back into a regular guy to seem less alarming to the crowd who thought dragons were extinct, Zander suggests in all our heads.
Azrael fixes him with a glare that would have most witches shaking in their boots, but he also changes. Right there in front of us. With smoke and the rumbling of distant thunder, he shrinks down into his more palatable-for-a-crowd form.
When he’s back to a very large man, but a man instead of a dragon, there’s still a long, ugly gash on his arm.
It hurts me to even look at it. Jacob has healed most of my burns, so I nudge him away and point at Azrael’s arm. “Jacob . . .”
Jacob nods. He gets to his feet and walks over to Azrael.
“It’s no use,” Azrael growls. “A witch cannot heal a fabulae.”
“Maybe I can’t fix it,” Jacob says evenly. “But let’s see what I can do.”
Please, I send out to Azrael and Azrael alone.
He shoots me a long, dragony look, then gives Jacob a faint nod. But I can’t focus on whether Jacob can actually heal him, because Maeve is screeching as if Azrael is currently chomping on her with his full-size dragon teeth. Their little group is missing Festus and Felix now, but the rest of the Joywood coven are in the throes of a veritable fit.
