Page 10 of Dragon Fires Everywhere (Witchlore #4)

I glance at the stack of books with some relief. This is normal. This is where I shine. No dreamy smiles required—I can just read and let what I have always believed is the best part of my magic lead me where I need to go.

I take the first book off the top of the stack, open it, and begin to read through a compendium of the magical creatures that

were said to have existed within witchdom, if only once upon a time.

Most I’ve heard of, if only in fairy tales. A few are entirely new to me. But when I make it to unicorn , I can’t sink into the information the way I did with the rest. I look up at Rebekah, who’s drawing on her tablet. Maybe

I shouldn’t ask, but...

“Do you think he really killed a unicorn?”

Rebekah looks up at me, setting down her pen. She’s considering. Thoughtful. Not mad the way I half thought she might be—but

then, she knows who her man is. “He doesn’t remember anything, but I know he thinks he did.” Rebekah sighs. “And, hey, it makes sense, right? Immortality requires terrible acts and, if the dragon is

telling the truth, specifically that terrible act.”

“We won’t hold it against him. I hope he knows that. He’s proven himself redeemed.”

I thought that would have been obvious, but Rebekah takes her time nodding. “ We won’t hold it against him. But your dragon will. He already does.”

It feels a bit unfair, this ownership. I didn’t mean to free him, even if it was somehow me and that damn book. I ignore that growing feeling of belonging inside me when I think of him. I concentrate on reality . “He’s not my dragon.”

Rebekah’s eyebrows rise, her expression going carefully bland. “I’m sure it was someone else riding on his back last night,

then.”

I can only stare at her. I have no quick lies. No ditzy smile. She... saw?

“Coronis,” she offers, with a slight smile.

Frost’s familiar. I don’t know how I didn’t see a giant, ancient raven trolling about the heavens, but I guess I was a little busy being wildly joyful that Azrael was wheeling me around and around the night sky.

Rebekah sets her tablet aside and comes to stand beside me. She puts her hand on my shoulder and looks down at me, her face

not blank anymore.

I think what I see is compassion. I’m afraid it might be pity.

“Be careful, Georgie,” she says quietly. “We don’t know enough about dragons, and Nicholas certainly doesn’t trust this one.”

I try not to frown. “I’m always careful.” Isn’t the fact that I’m here poring over old tomes a case in point? The dragon ride

was just... Azrael.

I tell myself that, stoutly. And then keep going. What am I supposed to do? Refuse a dragon? I tried, didn’t I?

No one has to know about that pulse in me. Us. No one has to get the faintest hint that this all feels as familiar to me as if I’ve known him all my life. As if his appearance

made all my years make sense at last.

Facts , I tell myself. Not fiction and fairy tales.

I open the next book, wanting to get back to where I’m comfortable. The text is written in very old German script, and years

of going through old books mean I don’t even have to mutter a translation spell to understand it. But still, it’s very dry

and boring.

I place my hands on the ancient pages, and let myself feel . The history, the power, the magic. I internally say the words that tend to help me find what I need.

Words of old, knowledge told, lead me to what must be exposed.

I let my eyes drift closed, the magic within me humming.

And this feels familiar in a way that doesn’t make me ache.

Good when the past day has been so weird.

For a moment, I feel the way I usually do.

Careful and rooted . Once again—at last—I know exactly what and who I am, and have been.

Especially when my hands lift and pages turn of their own accord, then settle.

I open my eyes and survey the page the book wishes to show me. It’s a drawing or a diagram of sorts. A rectangle that almost

looks like it’s meant to represent a table. In a very old language, it announces that this is the shape of a true coven.

For a second, I think of that Thanksgiving table I saw from outside. A full and happy table without me. How adding myself

felt like an imbalance. I’m half afraid to look at the list of designations at each place along the table, for fear I won’t

be represented in any true coven.

But there are eight meticulously labeled places at this table, not the proper seven that I was always taught a coven needed, or even the six

I was afraid were all that were really needed last night.

I stare at the page, feeling my pulse pick up as I try to take in what I’m seeing.

A Warrior is at the head. That’s no surprise. On either side sit a Healer and a Diviner. Then a Guardian and a Revelare are

the next two, seated across from each other in the middle seats. Then a Praeceptor and a Historian in the last two seats.

On the end is a fabulae . A very, very old witch word for a magical creature.

Now whatever’s happening with my pulse is making my heart slam against my ribs.

I scan down to the paragraph beneath the diagram. A true coven is made up of its leader at the head and a fabulae at the end. They’re buttressed on one side by hope: the future,

the past, and the connection to both in the middle. On the other side, practicality: knowledge, healing, protection.

I feel like I can hardly breathe. It’s proof that Azrael is right. But more than that, it’s a different understanding of what

a coven is than we’ve ever had.

Because, a voice in me says with great authority, they didn’t want you to know. They didn’t want anyone to know.

Before I can beckon Rebekah over, Frost appears. He’s holding a giant, ancient book that looks like it hasn’t been opened in centuries, and might have been produced by hand. He drops it on the table in a way that makes the archivist in me wince.

“I think I’ve found a spell in this one that should work to shroud a magical creature’s power,” he says. “Should your dragon

deign to trust us.”

He’s not my dragon. But I won’t protest too much. I refuse.

And besides, there’s that aching thing in me that makes a protest feel like a betrayal.

“Look at this,” I say to the both of them. I point to the diagram and watch as he mutters a spell to translate it for Rebekah.

“This feels familiar,” he says. Then he nods. “If this is right, and true, Azrael needs protection now more than ever. The

Joywood certainly won’t want us to have access to him. They won’t want us to have the opportunity to become a true coven, whatever that means.”

It’s hard to think of Azrael as being in trouble, considering the size and strength of him in man form, let alone his dragon form. But if the Joywood cursed him once, they can do it again. Last night was a risk, a bad risk.

So Frost is right. He needs protection, whether he wants it or not.

Before I can think about that, or deal with the shrouding spell Nicholas has brought, my gaze lands on a stack of books. On

the top is the same slim little paperback fairy tale I’ve had since I was small.

Only instead of the usual scene on the cover, the dragon isn’t flying.

He’s falling. And bleeding .

And I don’t think.

I don’t do anything but react .

I’m back in Wilde House in the blink of an eye—a literal blink. I look around wildly, dropping my stack of books in much the same way Frost dropped the ancient one just minutes ago.

I don’t see or hear anyone, so I shout out. “Azrael?”

No response. My heart is beating triple-time as I pulse out my magic to feel him, find him. Save him.

I feel nothing and I can barely breathe, the panic is so sharp. I transport myself into my room to grab my clear quartz wand

and my athame, my mind geared for a fight. But when I arrive in my turret, I realize it is not empty.

Octavius is curled up on my window seat, calm and sleepy. And Azrael is right there. I get the impression of a huge, scaled

tail swirling around the room, long and sinuous, but it’s only an impression. As if I’m seeing it without actually seeing

it.

He’s lounging on my bed, reading one of my books. My crystals are scattered... everywhere. On the bed, on the floor, in

the air.

And he is not bleeding. He does not appear hurt in any way. He looks as if he’s relaxing and having a grand old time with

my things .

“You’re... okay?” I’m panting, willing my heart rate to slow, trying to find some much-needed calm amidst the panic—

And I’m not sure I want to parse the levels of my panic, either.

I’m afraid they would answer each and every question I don’t want to ask.

He lifts an eyebrow, studying me with those golden onyx eyes. “Was there some doubt?”

“I...” I’d feel stupid if I wasn’t still trying to catch my breath. I look down at my hands, and while I dropped all the

other books in the foyer, I’m still holding the slim fairy-tale book in one hand. I don’t know what else to do but hold out

the cover, so he can see what I saw.

Azrael sits up, a lazy demonstration of his impossible physique, and studies the picture. He doesn’t seem alarmed or upset

in any way. He nods. As if to say, Of course, there it is . “Gruesome.”

“It changed,” I tell him, with a little too much heat, because he should get this, surely. “You—”

But just because there’s a dragon and a girl with red hair on the cover, it doesn’t mean they’re us .

Embarrassment crashes over me, pushing past the worry and panic.

Azrael rises up from the bed in a manner that manages to be athletic and graceful at once, and crosses to me. He takes the

book, then steers me to the cozy chair in the corner of the room that looks toward the turret windows. I like to curl up here,

read, and drink my tea. He nudges me to sit down, and then a mug of tea appears on the little table next to the chair.

Like he’s... taking care of me. Nurturing me, even. Which makes zero sense.

“Why are you...”

I don’t even know how to finish the sentence. Because it’s the strangest situation I’ve ever been in—and I’ve dealt with ghosts

and muting hexes and talking statues this year, just to name a few of the highlights.

It’s clear Azrael does as he pleases, but something about me and helping me seems to be what he pleases.

I don’t know what to do with this. Or I do know, but I won’t. Particularly when he crouches next to the chair so we’re almost

eye level, lifts the teacup, and hands it to me. There’s gold threaded in the black of his gaze. And there’s danger and mayhem

stamped all over him, but something different at the center. Something calm and sure and...

“You’ve been a faithful friend to me, Georgina,” he says, very seriously.

My heartbeat kicks up again. “I didn’t know you were real .”

He cocks his head, looking almost amused. Almost. “Didn’t you?”

I don’t know how to answer that. I always thought he was an enchantment because that’s what made the most sense. A spell, not a dragon . A magical newel post, not a sentient being.

But if I sit here and think on it, whether the realistic Historian part of me tried to rationalize it away or not, I treated

him like he was real. Having conversations with him. Calling it sleepwalking when I knew full well what I was doing. What I was dreaming.

What I’ve been dreaming my whole life. Innocently, when I was small.

Much less innocently as I came of age.

And it was real , because he left me trinkets to cheer me up. Because when he spoke in my head, however infrequently, it was him . Real this whole time.

Mine this whole time.

He pushes the tea at me once more. I take it, breaking his gaze because it feels like all that black and gold has rearranged

something inside of me. Or maybe burned away some strange little walls I didn’t know were there, keeping all my selves compartmentalized.

Be more fanciful, Georgie , I tell myself harshly, the way my mother would. And I take a big, bracing sip of the too-hot tea.

“Georgie?”

It’s Rebekah shouting from downstairs. We’re coming , I tell her in our inner coven channel.

I put down the teacup. “Rebekah and Frost were with me.” I push to my feet. “I’m sure they’re worried too.”

Azrael makes a noise that is not agreement, but he doesn’t argue. He follows me out of the room, shooting an irritable glance at Octavius when he winds his

way in front so that he’s walking between us.

We head downstairs and find Rebekah and Frost in the entryway. Frost has the giant ancient book from Germany that I left behind.

Rebekah looks ready to fight, until she sees Azrael behind me.

“Everything’s okay, I take it?”

“For now,” Azrael says, holding up the book. “I suppose you all think this means I’ve been threatened.”

“Sort of a rational conclusion to draw,” Rebekah returns.

But Frost shakes his head. “That book is not dark magic. It’s no friend to the Joywood. What it could be is a harbinger of what’s to come. So, not a threat. A warning.”

Azrael looks at the cover again, considering the illustration. “It would take considerable magic to kill me. If the Joywood

could have managed it, they would have done so years ago, and with great glee.” He looks up, that dragon grin on his face.

“They did not.”

Frost lifts a shoulder. “Unless all their dabbling in dark magic has made them stronger than they were when they cursed you.

Or since it’s only you now, instead of the entirety of some magical creature populace, it would be easy.”

“You would know how that works, of course,” Azrael responds silkily.

But Frost doesn’t rise to the bait. “We should do the spell to shroud you sooner rather than later,” he says. “Unless you

wish to test this theory of yours.”

Azrael laughs, but it’s a bitter sound as he comes around me as if preparing to fight. “Let’s not pretend you care about my

fate.”

“I care about the fate of the Riverwood.” Frost looks grim then, not his usual coolly sardonic self. “And it’s clear from

the books and from what little I can remember that you’re right, dragon. The fate of the Riverwood rests on having a magical

creature as part of its coven.”

I take a deep breath. Then I reach out and put my hand on the big, muscled, dragony shoulder that is still higher than mine,

though he’s two steps below me.

I will catalog the wildfire that roars in me at that touch later. I will analyze the fact that my palm feels scalded. I will

probably dream about the slow way he turns, and the hunger in his dark gaze when it meets mine.

I will spend a long time sifting through the feeling of fate in my veins, like desire.

But right now I need him to understand, truly, that he’s a target. And that we need him to live.

That I do, though I’m not ready to think about that either. “And, Azrael, you’re the only magical creature we’ve got.”