Page 17 of Dragon Fires Everywhere (Witchlore #4)

I do not speak with Azrael for the next few days as we lead up to the Cold Moon Ceremony.

I pretend this is because I am just that busy . Which is not entirely untrue.

I spend my days at the museum, dealing with the transfer of my old duties to my replacement and going through what I can find

of Happy Ambrose’s to figure out what my new role will be, since I can’t trust anything the Joywood tells us. And I spend

my nights up in Frost’s library, researching fabulae and true covens, because if I fall asleep there in one of the big, cozy

chairs, so what? That happens when pulling all-nighters.

And if I expect Azrael to come charging up the bluff or break through the block that I put up to keep him out of my head,

well... that’s between me and my active fantasy life that I’ve been trying to suppress for the whole of my existence.

He was in the wrong. That’s all there is to it. I will not acknowledge his existence until he apologizes.

But I also avoid that existence, because somehow I get the feeling that dragons aren’t the sort to hang around, hoping to be acknowledged.

On the evening of the ball, all the members of the Riverwood get ready on our own, but we decide to meet at Wilde House to

head to the Cold Moon Ceremony together. Because it’s always a good idea to show everyone that we’re a unit. And, bonus, we’re

more powerful together.

There are two components to the Cold Moon Ceremony tonight. First, the town element, fit for witch and human alike. An actual

ball with fancy dress and champagne and over-the-top Christmas decor and music—thanks to Emerson and her event committee,

of course.

The second component happens at midnight and is the first ceremonial act of a new ruling coven—according to what little we’ve

been able to find on what happens after the ascension trials. According to the lore, the voted-out coven is supposed to help and guide the new coven through the

transfer of power. Hence the time between the trials and the solstice when we actually gain full power.

You can imagine how helpful the Joywood have been in that regard.

Nevertheless, we’ve managed. I’ve collected everything we need to open the archives—the first step toward our assumption of

full power. Access to the full archives means knowledge. Not just of rules and law and coven matters, but everything . Family trees, as Azrael mentioned the other day. Histories that I know the Joywood have obscured from us, that they don’t

want us to know about. And no doubt all manner of things I don’t even know I don’t know.

Maybe I’ll even get to the bottom of Ellowyn’s ghost’s obsession with crows, and why they seem to show up in that warning

fairy tale.

I have only encountered one other thing in this life that makes me as giddy as the prospect of finally knowing all the things , and I’m not speaking to him.

I go to pull the dress I’m planning to wear out of the closet, but on my way, I catch sight of the fairy-tale book on the corner of my dresser, where it definitely wasn’t a few moments ago.

I pick it up and look at the cover. It no longer shows Azrael bleeding, or the sweeter cover I remember from my entire childhood

into adulthood. Tonight the princess and the dragon are wrapped up together.

In what can only be described as a steamy embrace.

For a moment, I can only stare. Then, as if scalded from the outside and inside at once, I put it back on the dresser. Face

down. I don’t think so , I tell the universe and all the watchful goddesses, while that terrible ache inside me shifts to longing before settling

low in my belly.

Then pulses with a whole new kind of heat.

I march to my closet, pull out my dress, and ignore the strange butterflies in my stomach and any pulsing . I remind myself that the last cover was Azrael bleeding and falling, and it hasn’t happened.

No reason at all to suppose the current cover will come to life either.

If I know anything about the universe—and any attendant goddesses—it’s that they love their little jokes. I decide that’s

all this book is. Because what else could it be?

I force myself to concentrate on getting dressed instead, though my hands are shaky.

I have always loved to dress up, something that was frowned upon in the Pendell house because it was showy . This means that events like this are special. A reason to put on a fancy outfit, even if it does sparkle, because even a

musty, dusty Historian should be in a pretty dress for a Christmas ball.

I study myself in the mirror. I look good. Maybe a bit more like the princess from the fairy-tale book than I find comfortable,

considering my current standoff with Azrael, but hey, who doesn’t want to go to a ball looking like a princess? Complete with

a tiara.

I turn to leave my room because we’re meeting up downstairs—

But Azrael is standing in my doorway. I stop short.

He says nothing. Just stands there, his dark gold eyes making me understand at last that all that ache inside me is nothing more than longing. He holds up a hand, and a gold chain full of sparkling colorful jewels unfurls in

a line that swings like a pendulum. It takes me a moment to recognize that it’s a necklace.

A gorgeous necklace.

He still says nothing.

I order myself not to think about that book cover. It is, therefore, all I can think about.

“Am I supposed to take that?” I try to sound cool and sophisticated, like I am proffered jewels from ridiculously attractive

men on the daily.

Those dark eyes gleam. “That is commonly what a person does with a gift, yes.”

I stand taller. Primmer. “You didn’t say who it’s for. Or who it’s from.”

He scowls at me. “Do you want the gift or no?”

I do. I really do. I like all rocks, but semiprecious and precious stones are a great personal weakness of mine. My hands itch to reach out

and grab the necklace, but I have set a boundary and I will not cross it. I will not , no matter how pretty a bauble.

“No,” I say firmly, then make myself walk past him.

But as I’m charging down the hall—in no way running away from him, I try to assure myself—I suddenly feel a weight around my neck. I look down, and the jewels are fastened there.

He magicked the necklace onto me.

I whirl back to face him and he’s right there . “What is wrong with you?”

“I don’t understand why you’re angry.”

“I don’t understand how you’ve lived hundreds of years at least and can’t comprehend something so simple.”

I should probably take the necklace off. I don’t.

Azrael sighs, but impatiently. As if I’m the problem here. “You should tell your friends the things that happen to you. This

is common knowledge. I solved this problem for you.”

“It isn’t up to you to tell anyone anything. Or to solve a problem I didn’t ask you to be involved in. It’s up to me .”

“But I am right, and you were wrong.”

I remind myself that smiting other beings is wrong, no matter the justification. “Forget it.”

“You admit I was right, though.”

It’s like arguing with a brick wall. I turn to walk away, but he appears in a puff of smoke in front of me, blocking my escape

route.

He looks annoyed, but... indulgent? I don’t like it. No matter how it winds its way inside me, joining that hot, deep ache.

“Very well, I am sorry for... doing the right thing that you did not want me to do.”

He’s impossible. I tell him so, and not very nicely.

Azrael only shrugs. “I am a dragon.”

It shouldn’t be endearing. I shouldn’t want to smile. I certainly shouldn’t forgive him.

Then again, he did apologize. And he’s wearing a tuxedo. A very elegant, fashionable tuxedo. I thought it was bad enough when he was walking

down the street in his casual clothes. No one who has ever lusted after a man in any form is going to be able to handle him

like this.

I am not particularly able to handle him like this.

And it is clear from that hungry look on his face that he knows it. “We should go,” I tell him. Like a warning.

“Have you forgiven me?” he demands, clearly ready to keep barring the way. And we don’t have time for this.

That’s why I say, “Yes.”

Expediency, that’s all.

There’s that gleam in his gaze again. “Let me back in.”

I frown at him. I’ve already forgiven him, but that doesn’t mean I want him in my thoughts again. “Can’t you just break in, if you’re so mighty and powerful?”

He grins. “I could.”

There’s something about the fact that he could , but hasn’t, that I assure myself means he’s growing. Understanding boundaries better. I close my eyes and picture turning

a key in a lock—essentially undoing the block I put up.

“Excellent,” he says, and then he puts his hand at the small of my back and leads me toward the stairs. As if nothing ever

happened and we’re the best of friends.

Or something more than friends , maybe , a voice inside me whispers, but I’m not about to acknowledge what else we might look like, walking down the stairs in elegant

clothes like this, his palm a shocking bolt of heat against that tender place on my back.

Wilde House is full-on decorated now—a product of both Emerson’s and my magic—for the historical home tours I’ll be giving

this weekend. We went with a 1950s vintage look. Plenty of bright colors and tinsel and grinning Santas.

Everyone else is already waiting in the bright and sparkling foyer, even Jacob, who got a last-minute Healer call earlier

to deal with a small, random attack that reeked of black magic.

“We clean up nice, don’t we?” Emerson beams at all of us like she dressed us herself—an offer she made that was declined.

I feel like everyone is staring at my necklace, but if so, they don’t mention it.