Page 15 of Dragon Fires Everywhere (Witchlore #4)

“Georgie.” Carol’s voice, as always, makes my skin crawl. Particularly because she always smiles in that creepy way of hers.

It’s almost as unnerving as Maeve’s bedraggled familiar, a moth-eaten-looking blind pigeon she carries around with her in

a panda-shaped purse. “You’re back early from your travels.”

I try to recalibrate. Quickly. Let my emotions go, or at least hide them while I play up the ditzy smile. I know it’s the

only thing they see—and really, I prefer not to be noticed by any members of the Joywood. It’s safer that way.

“I came back for Thanksgiving,” I say dreamily, as if the holiday itself called me, personally, from across the ocean. “Was

I supposed to stay away until the actual Cold Moon rises?”

I laugh merrily at that, though as I say it, I wonder. Did they plan to keep me away all this time? No one else had to go

off on a quest, just me. Is this part of some new, horrible Joywood plot?

Or am I just trying to make myself feel better because that might make me a special target like the rest of my friends? You need to get over the idea that you are somehow special , I can hear my mother say.

Inside I feel nothing but a roiling sense of ick . And not just because of my train of thought or the fact of these two awful women standing right in front of me.

“I’m not surprised a Historian like you would be so quick,” Carol says, and anyone around us would believe she’s being kind

and genuine, but I know better. “You always were a smart one, weren’t you?”

I am beyond creeped out. The last time I saw these people, they literally disappeared with a bang after assuring every voting witch they

would see what a mistake they’d made in choosing the Riverwood over the Joywood.

“One of the smartest,” a smooth British accent says from behind me. And then Azrael’s arm is around my waist, pulling me to

him. “Are you going to introduce me to your friends, babes?”

I have to put every last ounce of energy to work to keep from pulling a face or shoving his arm off me. Why is he purposefully engaging with the Joywood? Does he want us all to die?

And why did he call me babes , of all things?

I make myself smile, though it’s hard. “Carol. Maeve. This is my... friend. Peter. We met in England.”

He beams at them, then at me. “Once she described the beauty and charm of St. Cyprian, I couldn’t resist following her home.”

I feel his eyes on me, and wonder how no one sees that dangerous thread of gold all but seething in his gaze. But he doesn’t sound angry. He sounds besotted. “Or maybe that was just... her.”

Carol studies Azrael with a frown. I notice that her trademark frizzy hair is looking a little more healthy and wavy while

beside her, Maeve is standing there open-mouthed, and it appears she’s missing a few teeth. She’s gazing at Azrael like she

can’t believe her eyes, and I think she’s figured it out—

But she hasn’t. “A human ?” she whispers to Carol, but not quietly enough for us to miss it.

Azrael cocks his head. “Were you expecting a werewolf?”

Maeve blinks, and Carol’s expression grows tight. But only for a moment. Then she smiles, right at Peter .

“Welcome to St. Cyprian, Peter. I hope we’ll see you at the Cold Moon Ball.” She glances at me and delivers one of her pointed

sniffs. “Georgie always likes to bring her little friends to our events.”

If he’s offended by little friend or the always —I think Carol is trying to say I’m a bed-hopping slut, as if that would offend me or him—Azrael doesn’t show it. He just

keeps beaming like he’s a ray of British sunshine, and his arm around my waist tightens.

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

This is all beginning to feel like torture, so I try to remember the world outside this conversation. The bookstore. Small

Business Saturday. The fact that I am in the ruling coven now, and they are a disgrace.

“Did you all come in for something specific?” I ask sweetly. I gesture toward the nearest table. “All the fairy tales are

buy one, get one free. And there’s a fifty-percent-off sale on—”

“As usual, Emerson doesn’t carry what we were looking for,” Maeve says, clucking as if she’s deeply disappointed. From somewhere

inside her purse, I hear an echoing gurgle. No doubt her poor pigeon.

I want to ask her why they’re here, but I don’t. I want to say all manner of things, but instead I just smile at them, bright

and happy and as ditzy as possible, and offer no more conversation.

The silence stretches out. It’s uncomfortable. But nothing can compel me to act like I notice. I keep right on smiling at

them. Azrael beams.

If they want to break the silence, they can.

“Well,” Carol says after an eternity. “It’s good to see you back, Georgie. We can’t wait to see what you can do.”

That sounds like a threat, I think, as Carol flicks a glance at Azrael.

But she only turns and walks away, dodging the sea of customers as she goes.

Maeve gives another little sniff, hoists her panda purse higher like her feeble pigeon is a shield, and then quickly scurries along in Carol’s wake.

I swear a little chunk of hair falls off of her head as she goes.

I guess we know the spell worked , I say, and I wonder if Azrael heard that in his head, because when I turn to look at him, his expression is back to mad

and disapproving, as if our run-in with the Joywood hadn’t occurred.

“When will you tell Emerson?”

“About what?”

“Don’t play dumb, Georgina. Nothing makes me angrier.”

Which pokes at my own anger. “Then you need more things to be angry about.”

“Why won’t you tell her? She is your best friend.”

Like I need a lecture on my best friend. I move away from him, around a small witch family who are staring a little too intently in my direction. I find

a few more stray books, but Azrael is following, and I’m afraid if I don’t answer him, he’s going to make a scene.

“It’s embarrassing,” I say quietly. “Now, can we—”

“So what?”

My temper snaps. Just like that. I whirl on him—human and witch families around us be damned. “ So what? I don’t want to be embarrassed. Who does?”

He crosses his arms over his chest and shakes his head. “Your mother really did a number on you.”

I feel a bit like I’ve been slapped. My mother ? “What do you know about my mother?”

“Enough,” he says with a kind of dark menace that makes zero sense for a dragon who’s been cursed into a newel post for something like a century.

I remember myself enough to cast a quick spell to make sure no one can hear what I say to him, because there are already too many curious eyes in this store.

“My mother hasn’t been alive long enough for you to have known her before you were cursed, Azrael.

So how could you possibly have an opinion on her? Or her effect on me?”

His gaze gets a little shifty then. Some of the anger turns into that sly distance someone uses when they’re lying. “She used

to make... Wilde House visits. And as established, I saw and heard plenty while in my post.”

“Visits?” That makes absolutely no sense. My mother likes to talk about the Wilde family’s prominence and position , but they live next door to each other and barely interact. “What? Why?”

He starts to walk away, down the stairs toward the front of the store where Emerson is checking people out. But he talks as

he does it.

“There was a time, before you were born, that your parents were quite good friends with the Wildes,” he says, casually, like

that’s well-known information. Like magical creatures and true covens.

But I have literally never heard this . Not that I ever thought that they were enemies. Just that there was always a careful and polite distance between Emerson

and Rebekah’s parents and mine.

I trail after him. “Friends? What kind of friends?”

Azrael cuts through the crowd as if it’s a figment of my imagination, making his way to the front of a long line of people

waiting to check out. He earns a few dirty looks and muttered remarks when he ignores all of them, leaning over the counter

as if he’s one-hundred-percent cutting in line.

But he’s not. Or not to buy any books, anyway. He gets Emerson’s attention instead. “I believe it’s time your best friend

tells you what actually happened between her and that Sage person.”

Emerson looks at him like he’s lost his mind. And I... have no words. Again.

Then Emerson’s gaze slides to mine. She looks confused. Hurt, even. But the customer behind Azrael is no longer muttering . He is loudly proclaiming the fact that he is a local author who has come to sign his books, and he could wait in line, so why some people are too good for that is a mystery—

I try to shoot an apologetic look Emerson’s way as I grab Azrael’s arm, then drag him away. Or, more factually, I grab his

arm, he looks amused, and then he lets me drag him away.

But I immediately drop his arm once I can, once I’ve tugged him over to the door where we’re out of the line and no one is

paying attention to us any longer. I tell myself that’s because it’s the smart thing to do and because I’m mad at him, not

because touching him makes me feel so... shimmery . “Now that you’ve ruined, I don’t know, everything— will you just go back to Wilde House?”

Azrael scowls at me, his eyes glowing dragony gold, and I’m almost afraid he’ll shift right here, right now, and really ruin everything.

Instead, he says nothing. Not even inside my head. He doesn’t call me Georgina . What he does is turn and leave.

I’m relieved.

I tell myself I’m relieved . And if he gets into trouble out there, that’s his problem. Not mine. He’s a powerful being. An ancient myth. A dragon. He should be able to take care of himself, surely.

I go back to helping Emerson with the Confluence Books crowd. She’s watching me with too-close attention, despite the fact

she’s got a store full of people, all din and demands. But once the crowd dwindles and I can leave Emerson without her feeling

like I’ve ditched her in the middle of so much chaos, I do.