Dragon Fires Everywhere, page 8
Emerson is the first to speak. “Us shop owners have a big day tomorrow. We should get some rest.”
She gets to her feet and Jacob goes to her, slinging an arm across her shoulders. She smiles up at him, and that’s how it goes. Rebekah and Frost swirl off, looking at each other in a way that reminds me that they are both far freer spirits than I’ve ever been. Ellowyn grumbles her way to the bathroom, muttering about her giant belly, but Zander makes her laugh when she comes back, then takes her hand and magicks them away.
The couples pair off, back to their lives together. Something that has become regular and a little depressing . . . except this time, I’m not left alone.
Because Azrael stays here with me, as if he’s mine.
We should rest, I tell myself piously, even though neither one of us is a shop owner. I should tell him what room to sleep in so I can have mine back, so I can give my crystals a good cleanse and figure out what’s going on there.
Instead, he turns that dragon smile on me, and I feel it like his mouth all over my heated skin. “It’s very dark, Georgina. No moon to be seen. How about a ride?”
And I should say no. I should scold him. I’m not convinced the spell shrouding his magic works if he’s off flying around in his dragon form, and I certainly shouldn’t encourage that kind of behavior, especially when there’s a gossipy ancient raven wandering about keeping tabs on such things.
But I don’t.
9
I wake up in my bed with no real memory of how I got here. But I can tell I’m in my bed, with my soft down comforter and approximately twelve thousand throw pillows. So warm and cozy, like the sweetest cloud, that I don’t want to open my eyes and face the day. I want to snuggle in and sleep some more and—
But something moves. And not a warm, fuzzy thing like Octavius.
My eyes fly open, and Azrael is right there beside me.
His eyes are closed, his breathing even. He’s asleep.
In my bed.
Next to me.
I scramble up and out of bed so fast, I trip over my nightstand. The crystals and books littered on the surface shake and rattle, some of them even clattering across the hardwood floor.
Azrael opens one eye. Then the other. “Are you always so loud in the morning?” he asks sleepily.
From my bed. My bed. Where I slept.
With him?
I have no words. The last thing I remember from the night before is another wild, joyous free-wheeling ride through the cloudy night. I cast my mind around, but I don’t really remember coming back. Did I fall asleep mid-flight?
Am I hallucinating my entire life?
Because how did we end up in bed together? How am I in pajamas? I know I was tired, but . . .
Azrael is regarding me with a smug kind of interest. And there’s something about his smugness that has me straightening.
I’m overreacting. He’s a dragon. He doesn’t understand boundaries. I should explain them to him.
Like a parent to a toddler. Maybe if I do, I will start reacting to him like that and less like . . . this.
But my voice still doesn’t want to work.
With ease and grace, he moves out of my bed and around it toward me. My instinct is to scramble back, but all that smug helps me hold my ground.
Give him a firm, fair scolding. Explain the overstep, and set a boundary he is not allowed to cross. “Azrael. This is my bed. My room. And—”
“Of course it is,” he agrees, moving past me. But he doesn’t do so without touching me. His hand trails down my spine as he passes, and it’s not sexual—even if my body has a reaction—it’s . . . affectionate. The kind of thoughtless gesture I see Jacob and Emerson give each other.
But not the kind of careless gestures Emerson and I give each other. The affection isn’t friendly. It’s intimate.
It’s inappropriate, I assure myself.
“I’m starving,” he says, already halfway out the door. “Do you think we can have some of those cinnamon rolls you’re always on about?”
I could run after him and try my hand at scolding him, but I don’t. I stand where I am. Breathe. Then pick up my crystals and attempt to move through my morning ritual, a little too aware that my panic isn’t because I don’t want to wake up with him.
It’s more that I know that when I do, after a longer night I can remember fully, that will be that.
It’s that recognition. It’s that ache. It’s a sense of finality that goes along with that finally I felt when I saw him take form.
It’s fate, I think.
It makes me shiver. It makes me wonder. It makes me question my sanity—but only when he’s not in front of me.
And I certainly want to remember what happens between us once it does.
Tonight we’ll sit down, no midnight rides, and discuss the boundaries of my room, my space, my bed. Maybe if I give him rules, I’ll feel more in control of this thing that already feels as if it’s been forever. When it’s been two nights, two long days, and this morning.
I could ask him about it. I know he feels it too. But I don’t want that.
It’s like I know that if I do, there will be no going back.
Not that I want to go back. But I don’t know that I’m ready to give up the option, either.
Today, however, we have Small Business Saturday to help with. I pick up some amazonite I got in Australia and put on my bracelet made of blue lace agate that I may have once told spell-dim Emerson was my version of a wristwatch. We made our own fun in those dark days. Today the stones are for communication and patience, which I’m going to need in spades. And not just for demanding shop customers.
When I make it to the kitchen, Azrael is the only inhabitant, but a large breakfast spread has been left behind. Though I think, based on the amount of plates and food in front of him, that Azrael has made quite the dent.
I grab my own plate. There are indeed cinnamon rolls, so I take two and some coffee and sit down at the kitchen table. Across from Azrael, rather than next to him. I think this will offer a better mode of communication.
What are we communicating?
I frown at him. He shouldn’t be all up in my thoughts like this. Another boundary we will need to discuss. Tonight, I think firmly. Tonight I will figure out how to handle this. Him.
Me, something in me whispers.
“I’m going to Ellowyn’s shop this morning to help out,” I tell him. Firmly. “Tea & No Sympathy gets more traffic in the mornings, and always does a booming business this weekend. Then Rebekah will take my place, and I’ll head over to Confluence Books to help Emerson.”
He eyes the last cinnamon roll on the platter. “I can’t wait.”
“Azrael, you have to stay put.”
But he takes his time eating the cinnamon roll, clearly reveling in it, and though I have always loved a cinnamon roll myself, his enjoyment is almost—
I shake that off. And have to blow out a breath to settle myself.
“I thought the entire point of the spell last night was so that I did not have to stay put,” he says.
“We don’t know if it worked.”
He regards me with steady onyx eyes, the gold threads gleaming. “Yes, we do.”
I look down at my plate. “Look. I’m not saying you have to stay hidden in the house forever, but I think it’s best if you’re careful. You . . . you need some better understanding of how the witch world works before you go dragon-stomping through it.”
“I am part of your coven, Georgina. I am part of your life.” That seems to sound inside me, deep. Maybe it rings in both of us, this breathless inevitability that I have wanted my whole life—but not right now. Maybe that’s why he softens. “I was part of the witching world long before you. Perhaps you do not understand since the memory of magical creatures has been wiped away, but it is rude to treat us like something to hide.”
I look at him, feeling somehow both contrite and offended. “You know perfectly well that I’m being safe, not rude.”
“I know nothing of the kind. Besides, if the ruse is I’m a human who followed you home from England in a desperate love stupor, shouldn’t people start seeing us together?”
Then he smiles at me.
And in that smile, I know I’m toast. There’s no way to argue with it. Not when it dances and shimmers inside of me the way it does, and I could feign ignorance . . .
But it’s real. This is happening. He is waiting. I am resisting.
It feels like a dance, and one I know the steps to, though I shouldn’t.
“Want to dance?” he asks me now, his voice a temptation and fire in his eyes.
I do. Oh, how I do.
But instead, not dancing is how I leave Wilde House with a dragon in tow. We walk to Tea & No Sympathy down the length of Main Street, which is bustling today. It snowed early this morning, just enough to give everything a festive dusting that makes St. Cyprian look like a snow globe. I catch glimpses of the gleaming winter river through the alleyways that lead from town to the riverbank. Every time I see the glimmer of the water, I slow.
It feels like it’s trying to tell me something in a whisper, in a song. Impart some wisdom. But if so, it’s just out of reach.
I want to reach for it. I can feel a longing in me—
A crow caws from its perch on one of the stores, and it jerks me away from that sound.
“What are you looking at?”
I drag my gaze from the water to Azrael. “Just communing with the river.”
He frowns at me, and I get the strangest feeling there’s concern in the way his eyebrows draw together. But I keep marching forward. I don’t have time for river riddles today.
My dragon is riddle enough as it is.
St. Cyprian is out in force this cold, bright morning, streaming in and out of shops decked out for the holiday season. Once again, I get the kind of attention I never did before this year. Everyone makes sure to smile and say hello, like they’re trying to curry favor. This must be what it’s been like to be Emerson all these years.
And I keep waiting for someone to point at Azrael and reveal him. I don’t know how anyone could look at Azrael and think he’s anything other than pure magic. A big, powerful dragon wrapped in a ridiculously hot male human form that I can’t believe people don’t see straight through.
But I can tell as we pass people on the street—witches and humans alike—that no one looks at him and thinks dragon. They do think hot. I stop counting the second glances and flirtatious smiles when I pass fifty.
And no, I don’t like that at all.
“You’ll need a human name,” I say to him, maybe a little more forcefully than necessary, when a pack of women literally blocks the bricks to gape at him. “I’m sure the Joywood know your real name, and we don’t want them to make that connection. We don’t want them to think much of you at all. So it needs to be something boring.”
He is smiling at three octogenarian witches who cast little sparkler spells at him, all googly-eyed, then turns that smile on me. “I am never boring, Georgina.”
I ignore the smile. “Nigel is kind of a British name.”
He makes a scoffing noise.
“Edmund?”
“That sounds like someone I would eat.”
We go back and forth, not coming to any agreement as we reach Tea & No Sympathy. The shop is packed, which is a good sign, but after I weave through the crowd with Azrael prowling along behind me, I get to Ellowyn at the cash register, and she looks like she might start breathing fire on every single customer in her shop.
She sees me, and her eyes narrow. “I want to commit multiple murders,” she announces, loud enough that quite a few customers hear.
The regulars laugh, because Ellowyn’s grumpiness is part of the charm.
Some of the humans who’ve never been in here before, clearly, look concerned.
I skirt the counter and nudge Ellowyn out of the way. “I’ll take over the register. Maybe you can find some way to put Pete to work,” I say, jutting my chin meaningfully toward Azrael, who is surveying the crowd with a certain kind of hunger in his gaze that can’t be good.
At the sound of the name, he shifts that gaze to me.
He has no boundaries, so why shouldn’t I choose a name without his approval?
“Pete?” Ellowyn asks.
It’s my human name for him. Cute, right?
Ellowyn snorts. He doesn’t look like a Pete, Georgie. Or a human. Nor is he cute.
She leaves the register and makes her way to Azrael. I decide if anyone can handle a dragon, it’s Ellowyn. Even pregnant. Maybe especially pregnant. So I focus on the job I can actually do here.
I check people out, listen to complaints about the price and the crowd. I deal with people trying to haggle or return unreturnable things. I don’t love customer service, but with the right ditzy, I’m sure I didn’t hear you correctly smile, I find it endurable.
Or at least, I don’t feel the need to murder anyone. There’s a kind of satisfaction in never letting anyone ruffle my exterior feathers, no matter how some try.
As noon approaches, the crowd begins to dwindle a bit. People are no doubt flooding into all the restaurants and snack shops. I’m able to step away from the register for a few minutes, so I take the opportunity. I glance over to find Azrael with his head bowed toward a customer so he can actually speak at her level. He’s telling her all sorts of things about the tea, with grand gestures and much enthusiasm.
Ellowyn’s sitting in a chair by the window, her feet elevated. “He’s got a talent for this,” she tells me when I come over, sounding almost proud. “I’ve watched him talk at least ten women into twice the purchase they came in here to make.”
I try not to wrinkle my nose at the fact they’re all women. Ellowyn’s clientele is primarily women.
I check the customer out with my sunny smile. Azrael comes behind the counter and stands entirely too close to me, but if I make a point of moving away from him, he’ll see that as a win. So I don’t.
“In another life, I would have made an excellent merchant, don’t you think?” he asks me lazily after the woman leaves.
“Did you charm her into buying all that?”
“Of course.”
I shake my head. “You can’t use magic to get people to buy things.”
“Why not?”
“It’s . . . not right.”
“She wanted tea. I convinced her to get the tea she needed. Ellowyn earns money from the purchase she made. Explain to me how this is not right?”
“You didn’t give the woman a choice.”
“I knew what she wanted.”
“I’m going to have to side with the dragon on this one,” Ellowyn says as she waddles over to us. Her hand is resting on her belly. Her expression is one of amusement. “You’re welcome to play merchant in my shop any time you want, Azrael.”
Azrael beams at me. “See.”
“It’s Pete,” I tell Ellowyn. “Just Pete. He’s a regular old Pete.”
“Pete the dragon? I like it,” Rebekah says as she saunters in. “I walked past Confluence Books and it’s packed.”
“We’ll head over there right now,” I tell her. I say goodbye to Ellowyn and baby and then motion for Azrael to follow me.
“You know, you can go back to Wilde House,” I tell him. I even put on my airy, dreamy smile for him. “Take a break. Have some lunch. Enjoy yourself.”
I think mention of food will sway him, but he frowns down at me as we walk over to Emerson’s shop. Where he stops with me outside. “I do not like this little act of yours,” he tells me.
He opens the door to Confluence Books and gestures me in.
“What act?” I return, frustrated that he knows I have an act.
I walk under his arm and into the shop. It is teeming with people and immediately gives me a sense of claustrophobia. But I wave and smile at Emerson directing traffic in and around the counter, and don’t give Azrael the chance to respond.
When I make it through the throng of bodies to Emerson, she leans close to my ear. “Can you put the children’s section to rights? One of those damn Blanchard demon spawn tossed every stuffed animal into the canopy and knocked at least half the shelved books to the ground.”
“We’re on it,” I assure her. The Blanchard children are indeed demons, figuratively anyway, and I do not allow myself to think too much about the last time I saw their mother, Cailee.
Heaving about on a couch with my boyfriend.
But I’m here to help Emerson, not brood over my so-called romantic life. And the children’s section is in shambles. There are at least two toddlers throwing tantrums and one baby screaming its head off. I smile at everyone anyway, and begin to tidy up while offering the occasional reading suggestions, the careful redirection of a wild toddler, or an answer to a frazzled parent’s question about the parenting section.
After a while, I realize that Azrael has followed me, but he isn’t talking to anyone or apparently exuding any charm whatsoever. He’s putting books back on shelves and giving threatening looks to any child who dares reach for one. Before I can scold him for that, an unholy screech pierces the air.
A child—one of Cailee’s blond-haired, blue-eyed terrors—thunders over to a rack of books. He reaches out, shoves it, and the whole thing goes toppling over.
With only seconds to spare, I manage to snatch a little girl out of the way.
The boy turns, clearly looking for another rack to topple. I send out some magic that will keep all the books in place and hand the startled little girl off to her mother, but before I can do anything else, Azrael has plucked the Blanchard boy up and off the ground by the back of the collar. I leap forward. “You can’t—”
The child starts screaming and struggling. Azrael looks like he’s going to eat him.
“Azrael, put him down,” I hiss, all the while internally muttering magical words so any humans in the store think they’re seeing something else. Anything else.
