Page 27 of Dragon Fires Everywhere (Witchlore #4)

I wake up in my bed. Alone.

Well. Not entirely alone. Octavius is curled up at my feet. His eyes are open, and he is studying me with a certain kind of

knowing I do not wish to parse.

It’s a relief not to have to have a conversation with anyone just yet. I need some time alone to sort through... everything.

In the light of day. In the comfort of my own thoughts.

You’re welcome.

So much for my own thoughts.

But I smile in spite of myself. Azrael’s nearby, but also giving me what I need. Because I may not understand the exact hows yet, but I understand this .

Our souls belong together.

I don’t want to believe it, in the light. I just do.

I stretch. I don’t feel called to commune with my crystals, not just yet. So I simply move over to the window seat and curl

up there. I look out at the pearly light of another cold morning. It’s early yet, and unusual for me to be up without an alarm,

but I suppose that makes sense too.

After all, a lot of things happened last night.

And I want to handwave it all away, like it was a long, complicated dream. I want to tell myself everything that happened last night—and I mean everything—is confusing if not impossible, but...

Trouble is, it makes a little too much sense.

We’ve always been told that a witch’s soul is a one-time deal. Witch to death to ghost, if you can master the energy in the

afterlife. But we’ve also been told magical creatures went extinct and the Joywood aren’t evil.

So.

I let that thought roll where it will, and I hit more questions.

Why has Wilde House always felt like home? Emerson like a sister, Lillian like my own grandmother? Why did moving over here

at eighteen and talking to a carved dragon head all night long seem so right even when I was constantly trying to convince myself—or my mother was doing it for me—that it was wrong? That I should shuffle

back home and act more like a Pendell and less like my friends. Less like I might be special .

What I can’t really fathom is my dad’s role. Not Desmond Wilde —I still can’t face that head-on—but the man I’ve always thought was my father. If he knew, and what he said to me last night suggests he did, why did he go along with it? I need to talk

with him.

But I also know I need to talk with my coven.

And Azrael.

I have to deal with everything and that’s unfortunate, because what I want to do is get back in bed, pull the covers over my head, and sleep for a year, getting up only for snacks and a good book.

Octavius makes a graceful leap up onto the seat. It’s an impressive feat for such a big, chunky cat. He crawls into my lap,

and I scratch his throat until he purrs.

And the more he purrs, the less I feel the bed calling me.

In the light of day, this moment is not too big for me. I won’t let it be. Something special is blooming inside me.

Because no matter the thing about Pendells, or my mother, or anything else, the Riverwood is special. And I am part of it.

I pick up Octavius and cradle him like a baby, just the way he likes, until his purring vibrates within me like my own contentment.

It makes me smile, and more, fills me with a kind of determination. Or maybe it’s just that I understand myself and my place

in all this better this morning, having finally learned my own history.

I can identify as a Pendell because I was raised by them. I can identify as a Wilde because apparently I have that bloodline

in me.

Or I can just be me . A soul that has been around the block a few times, apparently.

And has found Azrael in every one.

I sit with that for a moment, Octavius’s purr like a rumble in my own chest. I used to have dreams along those lines, past

lives and past adventures, and every single time, my mother told me I was delusional and it was worrisome . She charmed my sleep to keep me from dreaming.

But all these years, I was right to believe, to hope, to dream .

I put Octavius down, then set about getting ready. I have historic house tours to give today, as part of one of Emerson’s

holiday initiatives. Nothing about yesterday changes that, except I have more connection to this particular historic house

than simply living in it.

I slide on a labradorite bracelet, a nod to my imagination and the dreams that brought me here. Some rings with honey calcite

and iolite for when I can get to the archives later, one of which I bought in Sri Lanka when I got the key in Colombo.

I’m reminded of what Azrael said last night, and while I have no fear of Sage, I consider my collection of black jade.

There’s one in the shape of a crow, but it has eyes made of amethyst, and that’s not what I want.

So I grab the black jade carved in the shape of a little rodent I picked up in London because I thought it was cute.

I slide it into my pocket for protection.

I leave my room, but I hear something in my library down the hall. Frowning, I magic myself inside because the door barely

opens thanks to all the books in there. And because anything that messy repels pretty much everyone, especially Emerson, giving

me privacy without my having to ask for it.

I weave my way through books, trying to find the source of it. It’s faint, but I can hear it, and it tugs even harder. It’s

that melody again, and it wants to fill me up.

I want it to fill me up.

I make it to the window and toss it open, leaning out into the crisp morning air. I can see the river out there, dark and

dotted with ice. Is it singing to me? Does it want me to—

Octavius is meowing at the door, and I look away from the window. He’s stuck one paw inside, but he’s pretending he can’t

get the rest of the way in when he could magic himself inside if he pleased.

I sigh and go back to the door, move some books out of the way, and open the door wider. But he doesn’t enter. He just keeps

meowing at me, louder and more pointedly.

“I don’t know what your problem is, but I guess we should go down to breakfast,” I tell him placatingly.

He stops meowing, then takes a few steps toward the stairs.

He even looks back at me like he’s making sure I follow.

I shake my head, because cats are cats even when they’re magic, and I follow him downstairs.

I hear the murmuring of voices and the smell of breakfast coming from the kitchen.

When I step into the cozy room, everyone is already here, sitting around a table and eating another elaborate breakfast Emerson no doubt put together.

But Azrael is where my gaze goes first. He’s leaning casually against the counter, mainlining food and coffee, as usual. When

his gaze meets mine, his smile turns dragony, and his eyes are hot and gold.

“Good morning,” he greets me. “I have called a meeting.”

I wait to be horrified by that, or at least a little frustrated. I never said I was ready to discuss any of this the moment I woke up. Or at all. Just because I can maybe accept that this is happening between us, that doesn’t

mean there shouldn’t be good, healthy boundaries where he doesn’t just swoop ahead and decide things.

But at the same time, this was going to fly out of my mouth the moment I looked at Emerson. I know how to keep myself hidden

from people. I know how to hide from the truths that make me feel small.

What I don’t know how to do is hide from the fact that Emerson is my half sister. That Rebekah is too. That we are actually family. There’s no smallness there, just sadness about other people’s choices.

I smile back at Azrael, because he was right to call it.

“Were the archives everything you hoped they would be?” Emerson’s smile is wide, her eyes eager. “Can we make a very long

PowerPoint presentation on all the Joywood’s misdeeds?”

“Not yet,” I say carefully, piling my plate high with food. My stomach has started to jitter with nerves, but I don’t let

those nerves win. I won’t . “The archives are finicky and won’t give me everything I want right away, apparently. It’ll take some work, but I’ll get there.”

Emerson smiles at me. “Of course you will.”

And I am caught by the overwhelming reality of this. She is my sister . And I know it doesn’t matter, because she always has been, whether we knew we shared blood or not. My ultimate champion and supporter and friend .

“There was something the archives did... Well, some things have changed,” I say.

I look around for Azrael, and he’s standing behind me. Like support.

If support was also guzzling down every flavor of muffin.

I look back at my coven. My friends. My family , and I take the empty seat next to Emerson. Then, as we sip our coffee and eat our breakfast, as we have so often this last

year, I start at the beginning.

I tell the story of two keyholes, the golden light. The way the room shifted and changed.

I do not leave any details out. I talk about the book, the changing cover. When I get to the kissing part, I lay it all out

there. The menfolk are various shades of horrified. For different reasons, I’m sure. Jacob likes his privacy. Frost is no

fan of the dragon, his ancient enemy. Zander looks disappointed, then slides a twenty-dollar bill across the table to Ellowyn.

“I knew it,” she says, waving the money in the air.

“You had a bet?” There is a mix of surprise and censure in Emerson’s tone.

“And you didn’t let me join in?” Rebekah shakes her head. “Because I’d definitely be a winner too.”

I frown at both Ellowyn and Rebekah. It’s not the bet that surprises me, exactly. It’s more that I’m surprised they saw what

I kept talking myself out of seeing.

“I mean, he’s clearly got the hots for you,” Ellowyn says, and smiles because if she says it, then it’s true. “And you’re

flustered by him.” Also true. “It was only a matter of time.”

Again, true.

“I do not know if I like this characterization,” Azrael grumbles.

“Welcome to the Riverwood coven and the Ellowyn truth bomb,” Zander says, not exactly in a friendly way. But not like the knives are out, either. “You learn to deal with it.”