Page 11 of Dragon Fires Everywhere (Witchlore #4)

Frost and I spend the afternoon working on the spell while Rebekah, Smudge, and Octavius do their best to keep Azrael occupied.

I remind myself, repeatedly, that while he didn’t exactly pledge himself to our cause earlier when I pointed out that he was

our only magical creature, he... looked at me, very intensely, for a long while. Then nodded—a quiet acquiescence that

would be a whole pep rally of support from someone else.

Though I can’t think of anyone else who’s ever simply nodded at me and made me feel something alarmingly close to giddy.

Even hours later.

When Emerson gets home from Confluence Books, I’m alone in the kitchen making brownies for the meeting we’ll have—by hand,

not magic, as handmade brownies are a critical component of all coven gatherings. Grandma Wilde passed this recipe on to me,

and I take the making of them as seriously as she did.

I am definitely not avoiding Rebekah’s too-knowing glances my way, or any dragons or post-immortals.

My best friend comes charging into the kitchen the way she has a million times before in our lives, and we fall into the patterns we’ve had as friends and housemates.

She tells me about her Black Friday sale as a small, independent bookstore owner, and the crowds on the street that make her hopeful that more people are shopping local this year.

There might be a few fist pumps, as punctuation.

In turn, I catch her up on the happenings of the day. Not just the spell Frost and I have worked on for hours, but the true coven and fabulae business. I draw her the diagram we found, there in the air between us.

Emerson leans against the counter, running her finger through the batter in the bowl now that I’ve got the brownies in the

oven, then licking it off. “The dragon really wasn’t making that up.”

She sounds surprised. I tell myself I have no reason to be this surprised at her surprise, but I am. “Why would you assume he was?”

Emerson laughs. “It’s been a long year, Georgie. Even I can’t drum up automatic trust for a dragon that pops out of my newel

post. Particularly when he spent the morning telling me how important he is. That’s rarely the case for truth.”

I have to nod at that. “Fair.”

We shift back to a discussion of chamber of commerce concerns—concerns I suspect Emerson will have to set aside once she’s

fully vested as the new head of the ruling coven, but no one dares get between Em and her beloved St. Cyprian festivals. Or

skyrocketing tourist rates. And as she’s telling me her plans for this year’s Christmas Around the World extravaganza, I feel

Azrael coming before he appears.

Don’t be so silly , I chide myself. It’s just a prickle on the back of my neck. It’s late November, and this is an old house, so it’s probably

just a draft.

But then there he is, prowling his way into the sweet old kitchen that holds approximately 98 percent of my happy childhood

memories, thanks to Emerson’s late grandma.

The remaining happy memories from way back involve libraries.

“Are we ever going to get this nonsense started?” he asks.

“Some of us have jobs, Azrael,” Emerson responds, but merrily, as if he should think that’s fun and wish he had a job too.

I doubt very much he thinks or wishes anything of the kind when he studies her the way he does. “How human .”

He peers at the bowl in Emerson’s grasp, but most of the leftover batter is gone. I swear I see his wide shoulders sink fractionally,

so I hand him the mixer paddles, and he lights up again.

I will not analyze why that gives me the warm fuzzies.

And the much hotters along with it.

After more Azrael complaints in the same vein—through mouthfuls of batter, which somewhat undercuts the mighty and terrifying dragon thing—the rest of the coven begins to trickle in. As he often does, Zander comes last and on the verge of late, muttering

that the ferry schedules are demanding. We all know that’s true. Since witches first showed up here, his family have been

guarding the three rivers that form the confluence that gives this area its power and magic.

But he’s also gotten more help in the nearly six months since his mother, Zelda, died. These days, his dad is doing much better,

and they’ve hired a few more Guardians to help with things. That means Zander is looking ahead and making time not just to

be part of the leading coven, but to be a father to the baby he and Ellowyn have coming.

If I think about how much things are changing, I might get dizzy—actually dizzy, not Georgie ditzy—so I don’t.

We meet in the living room the way we always do, and everyone settles into their typical positions throughout the space. Everyone

except me, that is. The leather armchair I usually curl up in with Octavius is just... not there.

“Where’s the old armchair?” I ask, trying not to sound violated.

It’s not my chair. This isn’t my house.

Emerson waves a hand. “Oh, Mom said something about wanting to see how it fits in one of their reception rooms over at the

embassy in Germany.”

So... I have nowhere to sit.

That’s silly, and I know it. There are plenty of other places to sit, like the rickety bench in the far corner. Away from

the fire and the group. It’s fine. I make my way over and refuse to admit to myself that it feels like I’ve been sent to the corner like some kind of naughty

toddler.

I also refuse to admit I don’t love that no one else seems to notice I’ve been relegated to the outskirts.

What I can admit is that I’m not fond of this much self-pity. It’s flooding me like a rising river, and I hate it. I refuse to indulge

it. I’ve never been one to wallow, and I’m not really sure why I can’t seem to stop now.

I lounge on the bench like it’s five times as comfortable as my usual seat.

“I have a sad announcement to make,” Emerson says, and everyone stills. She blows out a heavy breath. “I won’t be doing my

traditional advent calendars this year.”

For a moment, we all sit with that. I don’t think I’m the only one who expects a follow-up, like a goblin attack or the rise

of killer reindeer, but she doesn’t go on.

“Um.” I clear my throat. “Why, Em? You used to put so much work into them.”

Her advent calendars were a whole event. Gift deliveries, flowers, once an entire costumed a cappella concert at each of our

windows.

She smiles. “The work was the fun part,” she says quietly. “I liked the idea that I could make Christmas magical for you guys.

Now I have magic. It doesn’t feel the same.”

I feel my eyes tear up a little at that. Even Ellowyn looks suspiciously misty-eyed. Because getting her magic back has transformed Emerson, and us. It has turned us into the Riverwood. But there are losses too—even these silly ones.

I won’t miss being assaulted by Christmas cheer at a different time every day in the lead-up to the big day, but part of me

will always miss thinks-she’s-human Emerson’s delight in giving us her version of heedless holiday joy like that.

“Back to business,” Emerson says in a brisker tone, and then dives into a quick recap of everything we know so far, catching

up those who weren’t around today. While the rest of us are seated and never more comfortable, indulging in the brownies and other snacks and pizza from Redbrick, Azrael paces restlessly around the room.

I find myself watching him far more than I’m paying full attention to one of Emerson’s we’ve got this monologues, even though this one is sprinkled with all the holiday glitter and cheer we won’t be getting as a live advent

situation this year.

But Azrael looks more like a dragon than a being in a supposedly humanish form should. He’s just so... dangerous. And out of the corner of my eye, I can see the blue-and-green smoke, and the immensity of the real him. The tail and long,

muscular body.

“When should we do the spell?” Emerson asks Frost.

“You can do a spell whenever you like, but without him ,” Azrael interrupts before Frost can answer. “I don’t want him to be a part of it.”

“He needs to be a part of it. He’s part of the Riverwood. It will take our full power, all of our magic melding together to shroud

a dragon ,” I say, hoping that appealing to the dragon-size ego in there will move the needle.

Azrael considers this for approximately zero seconds. “No.”

“Maybe the Joywood can curse you into the ground this time,” Rebekah offers with a sharp smile.

Azrael scowls at her. His pacing has led him closer to me, so I stand and put my hand on his arm, feeling the desperate need to get him to agree. I’m about ready to plead. “You trust me.” You’ve been a faithful friend. “So trust me. Nothing bad will happen to you.”

It’s a big leap of a promise, because who knows what might happen? Magic is a temperamental thing, even when you know it in

your soul. And that’s not taking into account the dragon factor. Or the Joywood.

His dark eyes are on me, while threads of gold seem to dance. I feel that dance inside me, where my magic glows hot.

Ready for a spell , I tell myself. That’s all it is.

But it’s hard to remember that we’re not alone.

“If you want to be part of the Riverwood, part of what comes next, part of defeating the Joywood once and for all, we’ll need

you in fighting form, Azrael,” Emerson says. “Which means you cannot have a target on your back. They have to believe you’re

harmless.”

Big ask. It’s Azrael’s voice inside my head. He hasn’t done that since he was a newel post. It’s significantly more disconcerting

now, since the newel post wasn’t the best conversationalist.

But we both turn to Emerson, my hand still on his arm. He gives the faintest of nods, and Emerson looks at Frost.

“Better to get it done now than wait for a special time,” Frost says. “Every moment he’s unshrouded is a ticking time bomb.

Much like the dragon himself.”

I feel Azrael’s impressive biceps tense underneath my hand, which is distracting enough. Then he turns that dark, hot gaze

on me. I trust you , Georgina. Only you.