Page 20 of Dragon Fires Everywhere (Witchlore #4)

I knew this was a possibility. Witches in St. Cyprian don’t tend to skip the Cold Moon Ball. But I didn’t really think Sage

would... come find me, alone or otherwise. I didn’t think he’d bother.

He looks at me with great import , a look I am actually delighted that I no longer have to respond to with feigned interest. “We need to talk.”

“About what ?” I cannot fathom what there could possibly be to discuss. “You can magic anything I left at your place back to Wilde House.

I think I left my copy of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man behind.”

Although, on second thought, he can keep that. I don’t ever want to pretend I care about James Joyce again.

“Georgie.” And I always heard that faint note of disapproval in his voice. Maybe I wanted it there, because I’ve always liked

a project I could, with effort, get high marks on. But tonight it grates. “Who were you with back there?”

My eyebrows rise so far up it feels as though they might shoot off my head. “I beg your pardon?”

“That man. Kissing your cheek .”

He is not kidding. He looks dead serious. He looks affronted .

I stare at Sage, and now that he is not half naked and bucking about on Cailee Blanchard, I really take him in. The tall,

reedy frame. The ridiculous bow tie he thinks makes him look important and interesting. The wire-framed glasses I know he

doesn’t actually need. I think of every lecture he gave me on the environmental impact of beef when I just wanted to eat a

damn hamburger, or why Jane Eyre shouldn’t really be considered a classic because it’s actually regressive and not at all feminist when he knew it’s one of my favorite books anyway, or why the discordant, experimental

music he listens to and claims to be inspired by was far, far superior to any music I like—the kind with a melody.

I realize in this moment that I put up with him simply because I thought he was someone my mother would like. Someone who

would earn me a certain kind of response from her. An acknowledgment, almost. See, Mom, I do not in fact think I’m special if I think I belong with this man.

My mother. The project I’ve been working on all my life, with only low marks to show for it.

Yeah, my mother really did a number on me.

That gross, sick feeling in my stomach gets worse, because Sage is still standing there, and I am... so stupid. Just so

stupid. I didn’t listen to my friends because I didn’t think they understood. And they didn’t.

Because they love me , not who they want me to be .

“Sage, this isn’t the time or place,” I say, as kindly as I can manage. After all, there’s no point making a scene. That much

of the family code I agree with. “I have an important ceremony to prepare for, and I needed a little fresh air to center myself.

Go back inside.”

He does not do that. Instead, he moves closer to me. “I think we have an opportunity here, Georgie.”

I’m so confused by that, I make the mistake of saying, “What?”

Instead of telling him to go to hell.

“We’ve hit a rough patch,” he says in that way he has, like he alone can see across the expanse of my foolishness. And like

he deserves a medal for having to work so hard. “We both made some mistakes, but I think that gives us an opportunity to be

mature. To grow . Together. We’ll only be stronger once we deal with this.”

And the way he smiles catches at me, deep inside. Because he thinks that’s all that needs to be said. He thinks he’s got this.

Me.

He thinks he’s got me .

“ Once we deal with this ,” I repeat, slowly. “And, to clarify, the this you’re talking about is when I caught you inside another woman, Sage? A married woman? When you and I were still together and had decided to be exclusive? Is that what you think will make us stronger?”

He looks around a little guiltily, like he’s worried someone’s out here listening for his secrets, and I kind of hope they

are. I’m pretty sure Dane Blanchard would beat Sage into a bloody pulp if he got the urge, and certainly if he’d seen what

I saw.

Obviously deciding we’re in the clear, Sage looks back at me. “We can learn something from that, can’t we?”

“I did learn something from that,” I reply, with the earnest nod I perfected and used to give him during his insipid lectures, usually

brought on by someone else’s words. That he heard or read somewhere, or saw on the internet. So desperate to think the right

things and be seen as correct by the right people—and I guess the joke was on me, because I thought someone like that would get me right too, in the eyes

of all those people.

And ouch . The self-realization in a breakup is not fun.

“I don’t want to be with you, Sage,” I tell him, because I am actually an adult.

No matter that I doubt it sometimes and feel that everyone else does too.

“Even if you hadn’t cheated on me, this would be over.

I don’t want a relationship with someone who could betray me like that and act like it never happened. ”

He looks at me like I’ve broken his favorite toy, or maybe insulted James Joyce outright—hurt, but also indignant. And I almost

feel sorry for him, because I can see now, with all that lovely hindsight, that he doesn’t have real friends or even an inner

life. He has nothing to help him see how pointless it all is, desperately feeling around for a sense of importance or propriety

from other people.

A lesson I’ve taken a long time to learn, but I’m determined to finally learn it. I’m about to be the Historian, and I can’t have mommy issues. That would make me no better than that weaselly Skip...

The last name escapes me, a memory that becomes hazy and as I try to grasp for it, slips away. Like a spell, but I forget

all about that because Sage lurches forward and puts his hand on my arm. I don’t like the way he grips me—and I don’t want

Cailee’s leftovers, thank you.

Yet when I try to yank my arm back, he doesn’t let go.

I yank again, and he holds on, and the thing is—he’s not that strong. I shouldn’t need to use magic to push him off me. I’ve

never known Sage to have a grip , and I stare down at his hand—

But that’s all the reaction I have time for.

Because there’s a flash of something , and it smells like burning. Smoke twirls around in the moonlight, and then Azrael is here.

And Sage is dangling about a foot off the ground.

That dangerous dragon gold has taken over Azrael’s gaze, and his hand is around Sage’s neck. It’s as though Sage weighs about

as much as a feather.

Sage struggles against the hold, his usual superior expression giving way to red everywhere and panic around the eyes.

But I’m not that concerned about Azrael choking Sage, because it looks like he’s about to incinerate the guy on the spot. That’s what has me intervening.

You can’t kill him! I shout into his head.

“Why not?” Azrael says to me out loud, and notably without a British accent. “He put his hands on you.”

I have similar hard feelings about that, but I’m not a member of the Joywood. “It’s against the law, for one thing.”

Maybe for witches. But if you recall, I’m a dragon.

“ Pete ,” I throw at him from between gritted teeth, because as much as I can admit I’m not hating this—it feels a lot like justice,

and it’s even a bit thrilling—we have appearances to keep up. More importantly, we aren’t evil. “Put him down.” You’re supposed to be wan and British, remember?

He sighs. “Very well.” The accent is back.

Sage falls in a heap on the ground, gasping and panting. He looks from Azrael to me, and his gaze darkens.

“Cailee was right. You were cheating.”

I’d love to maintain my innocence, but what’s the point? My innocence doesn’t really matter to him, any more than his cheating

mattered to me. That’s the part that’s really sad. “You can call it whatever you want, Sage. It’s over.”

Sage gets to his feet, brushing dirt and grass off his pants. He looks at me with more anger and even hate than I would have

imagined he had in him. And it’s hard for me to understand why a guy who cheated on me would care what I do, when here I am,

setting him free with no fight or even an unpleasant scene. He should be thanking me.

Instead, he looks darker than I’ve ever seen him. “I should have known it was all an act. At heart, you’re nothing but a dumb,

dirty—”

Azrael leans forward. Sage scrambles back.

“Think very carefully what word you want to use in front of me, friend,” Azrael says, all dragon and warning. But also with

his British accent, I’ll give him that.

Sage lifts his chin, but it’s not really the show of courage or defiance I know he imagines it is, because he’s backing toward

the door that leads inside. “I’m not your friend.”

“In what universe would you imagine you could be?” Azrael asks, laughing in a way that raises the hair on the back of my neck.

Then he lifts an eyebrow, that’s all—and Sage practically falls all over himself to scramble inside.

It would be incredibly satisfying to let Azrael play with him a little, but that’s unworthy of me. Or so I tell myself. And

I almost mention it, but I hear that song from the river again, faintly.

I turn my head, straining to hear it.

“What are you doing?” Azrael demands, scowling down at me.

“Nothing.” I’m looking out at the confluence, like maybe I can see the song if I look hard enough. “I came out for some fresh air, and there was Sage. You know the rest.”

What is that melody? I swear I’ve heard it before. I know I have. I can almost hum it—

“What crystals are you wearing?” Azrael demands, sounding angry.

I pull my attention away from the song. I put my hand to my necklace. “The ones you gave me.”

“No others?”

I pat the pocket in my dress. “A few others.”

“Which ones?”

“For the ceremony tonight. Smoky quartz, malachite, sodalite. The usual.”

His scowl only deepens. “You need a better anchor.” He glances out at the river, but only for a second. “You need to carry

something for protection.”