Page 23 of Dragon Fires Everywhere (Witchlore #4)

“—there were whispers I’d heard in my travels.

Of artifacts, freely given by those magical creatures before they died, still imbued with their magic.

” That comes out sounding a little too assured, I think, so I make myself look dreamy.

I tilt my head so my red curls go everywhere, because I know they’re distracting.

That this is a trick I learned from Carol Simon and her trademark frizz is something I have kept to myself since I was in middle school.

I try to look as guileless as possible. “So I just figured, what can more magic hurt?”

I lift the unicorn horn in the glass so that everyone can see.

A wave of reaction and awe goes through the crowd. Mostly positive, I think—

But Maeve Mather is stomping her feet like a troll beneath a bridge. There’s a strange, rodent-sounding squeal coming from

over there.

“You shouldn’t be able to wield that!” Maeve shrieks.

I look at her, wide-eyed and confused, an act I am excellent at. “What do you mean, Maeve?” I look at the horn, then back at her. “I seem to be wielding it just fine.”

“It’s common knowledge that magic artifacts can only be wielded by witches who were given permission to do such a thing,”

Gil Redd, the Joywood’s tedious Praeceptor, blusters.

“Common knowledge?” I survey the crowd. “Has anyone ever heard of such a thing?”

There are murmurs. Shaking of heads. But not one person agrees with Gil.

Because if it was ever common knowledge, they took it from us.

It does my soul good to use that against them.

“Funny,” Frost says in that cut-glass voice of his that seems to etch itself into the bones of anyone who hears it. “I’ve

read that worthy witches can always wield these artifacts.”

This time, the murmuring is louder.

Carol says nothing, but I can feel her fury undulating out of her and toward us. So I figure it’s best to move this along. Careful not to shake, I whisper the

words to open the glass case.

For a moment, nothing happens, and I think we’re doomed—but then it opens.

I finally let myself glance over at that golden gleam in the trees again.

It seems to... wink at me.

On a deep breath, I pull the unicorn horn out of the glass with one hand and hold the key made out of malachite, designated

for our fabulae, in the other. I move over to where my coven is arranged and set both where Azrael should be, letting them

hover there above the ground.

Then, with my own key, I take my spot.

“We better hurry,” Ellowyn mutters.

And she’s right. I can feel the Joywood scrambling to find a way to stop us. Their magic is slithering around us, and it seems

to get blacker and more ugly as the seconds pass.

But they’re not having any luck getting through the protected unicorn horn. It’s almost enough to make me giddy, but not yet.

We have a spell to do. Anything can happen.

We can’t be the only ones who can feel that magic almost pulsing all around us.

My coven holds hands, grasping each other to create the rectangle of the table. In the middle of us, our keys form a figure

eight.

Frost and I both hold an end of the unicorn horn. It has its own magic, and that no doubt helps, but I can also feel Azrael’s

magic twining around my hand.

When we all say the words, I can hear him deep inside me, saying those same words.

So it feels like magic, and a vow, all at once—but I concentrate on the spell.

Our magic blooms and pulses, becoming its own figure eight. The keys begin to vibrate, then lift into the air. “With keys collected, unlock the knowledge meant for us. With magic twined, we reach out to the confluence, the pulsing power

of leadership, that begins with truth. Show us how to unlock the truth.”

I can feel an oily black entity just behind me, and yet it cannot penetrate. Whether it’s our power, the unicorn’s, Azrael’s, or the fact the Joywood are weakening, I do not know.

But I know we’re winning.

The keys crash together with a great boom that shakes the earth under us, but we hold tight to each other so it doesn’t shake

us . Then the keys break apart into a million little floating pieces, and for a moment, I begin to think I’ve done something

wrong.

Could I have messed this up after all?

But as I think that, they begin to swirl, together, into the shape of another key. This one isn’t made of a single crystal.

It’s made of many—and it’s threaded through with gold.

Just like a dragon’s eyes.

And once it’s complete, the key falls into the center of our imaginary table.

“Protect the keys, the knowledge, the truth. Give us the strength to wield all of this. Confluence, be our light, our protection.” We close the spell and end the ceremony, still holding hands.

I look up at the tree again, and the gleam of gold is unmistakable, but I seem to be the only one who can see it.

I hope I am.

We bow our heads, release our hands, then turn to all the witches gathered here with us. I move forward and pick up the perfectly

solid, warm gold key, shimmering with magic.

A magic I can feel inside me like a kind of map.

And I know what it is. I have opened the witchlore archives.

We opened the witchlore archives.

It makes me want to cry, shout, dance. Throw my arms around my friends. But we look out at the awed crowd. And I can’t help

but notice the Joywood are still here, but... worse for wear.

Maeve is actually missing a shoe. Festus Proctor’s face doesn’t... look right, like it’s deforming in front of us. Gil appears as though he might actually be turning into a toad. And Felicia Ipswitch seems like she’s aged three hundred years in the last hour.

Carol, somehow, looks just fine.

Still, I think Emerson must be right. Their magic, their power, must be fading. Carol’s is probably just taking longer because

she’s the most powerful.

Maybe our ascension is stealing it from them. Because they’re not just decaying in front of us. They’re also not pretending

to look happy anymore.

They hate that we succeeded.

Which reminds me of the rest of what I want to do tonight. The most important part, in my mind. I address our citizens.

“The witchlore archives are not just for the ruling coven,” I tell everyone gathered. “While it will be my responsibility

to keep them organized and safe, we will not shut the world out from knowledge. That time is over. The truth is for everyone.

Access to knowledge is for everyone .”

There’s a murmur in the crowd. Surprise, I think. Maybe even wonder.

There’s also what feels like fury from the Joywood contingent, but I expected that.

I continue on, as if I don’t notice. Or more like it doesn’t matter if they’re mad or not, because it shouldn’t. And maybe

I’m bold enough to believe it doesn’t, not anymore.

“I’ve been developing a system, and soon I’ll put out a call for Historians who’d like to work with me in the archives to

help facilitate this,” I tell the crowd. “Once the Riverwood have fully ascended, anyone will be able to request information,

access resources, and get help finding answers. It’s our history. We all deserve to know it.”

At that, we actually get applause. Better still, the Joywood disappear in one of their dramatic bursts, but almost no one

notices because it’s muted. Weak. Sad.

Just like them.

The rest of the crowd stays around for a bit, congratulating us and asking me questions about what access for everyone will mean for the most random situations.

“Access means access,” I keep saying, as patiently as I can. “No one gets to judge you for what you want to know. That’s not

how knowledge is supposed to work.”

And then, as the crowd finally filters away, I turn to the building.

It’s glowing. The key in my hand is hot. “I can’t wait to dive in. I feel like I could run a marathon. There’s so much to

find.”

Emerson laughs and gives me a squeeze. “You were great, Georgie. But I don’t have any marathons in me. Can’t we get some rest

and start fresh in the morning? We still have over two weeks before the solstice.”

“I’m with Em,” Rebekah says with a yawn.

“Dead on my feet,” Ellowyn agrees, rubbing her belly.

I look at all of them. I can feel the archives pulling at me, but they all want to go home. How will I sleep if we go home? How can I possibly leave without—

“I will stay with her,” Azrael says, melting out of the shadows in his man form but with eyes completely dragon gold. “A Historian

must see her treasures before she can be expected to rest.”

Emerson surveys him with some suspicion. But her next words are genuine. “Thank you for your help, Azrael. We could not have

done it without you.”

He looks... not quite offended. “Of course you couldn’t have. No thanks are needed. I have done my duty as the Riverwood

fabulae, as I always will.” He shifts his gaze to Frost. “That is what a true coven does.”

Frost only looks back at him with apparent mildness, but I think we can all sense the implied middle finger in his gaze. Azrael

laughs.

“I can stay too,” Emerson begins to say, but I shake my head.

“It’s okay.” I smile at my best friend. Even as that melody that’s Azrael dances inside me. As I imagine where that dance might have led if we hadn’t had the ceremony to worry about. As I acknowledge

that I want him in a way that should scare me even more than it does.

I can handle the dragon , I tell Emerson.

She still looks at Azrael suspiciously. At the necklace around my neck, then me. Her lips are pursed, and I don’t know that

it’s disapproval, exactly. Worry, I think, is more accurate.

But then she smiles. “All right. But if you need us...”

“I know.” I always know. Even if the world ended right now, Emerson would find a way to have my back.

We exchange our goodbyes, and there’s some reluctance in leaving me alone with Azrael that amuses him, but eventually everyone

is gone. It’s the two of us.

The melody of the river is back, and I almost look over my shoulder at where it’s coming from, but the song between us is

louder—