Page 29 of Dragon Fires Everywhere (Witchlore #4)

I regret sending Azrael off the minute I open the door to the first tour group.

Usually, these groups consist of more humans than witches. If we do get witches, they tend to be from out of town. Interested

in the lore of St. Cyprian, the center of the witching world, and eager to soak in their own history.

But today, Carol Simon herself is part of the group standing on the porch. I’m not sure if I’m more shocked by her presence

or the fact she’s wearing a very dramatic brooch in the shape of a weasel.

That looks a little too much like the little rodent of black jade in my pocket.

Yet this is hardly the most pressing matter at hand.

Emerson took care of the “company” spell that every witch knows, to make sure the house looks its best when guests arrive—but

I add a little extra to it with a muttered word— sparkle— to withstand Carol and to hide things like the ring I’m wearing.

I don’t want to find out if she’s seen it before too.

Then I work on that ditzy smile and offer a broad, historical welcome to Wilde House as I beckon the group inside.

I launch my well-rehearsed spiel about when the house was built, charmed with the usual spell, so that the humans just hear dry human history while the witches hear about the flight from Salem, the search for a place where three rivers meet, and the founders’ decision to hide one of the rivers to protect this place that must stay hidden.

I’m halfway through when I realize that Carol is not only not paying attention, she’s studying the chandelier in the entryway

with suspicion. Like she’s worried that the mermaid is free and helping us out.

Oh shit .

I don’t glance back at the dragon newel post, even though I want to. We fixed it and glamoured it back to looking how it should,

but will she know that he’s not in there anymore?

I think you have to get in the newel post , I shout frantically to Azrael in my head, putting my hand around the necklace he gave me like it’s some kind of safety blanket,

tangled there with the one I usually wear. No doubt he’s already at Tea & No Sympathy, but his voice is in my head almost

immediately.

I think you have perhaps lost your entire mind. I blame the sex.

Carol is here.

He says nothing to that, and I have to stop worrying about him , and start worrying about the crowd of people I’ve just ushered into Wilde House.

I go deeper into lecture mode. I talk about the history of the house. What’s original—like the woodwork, some of the flooring—and

what’s been added on over the years—like the chandelier, the glass, the modern amenities. Luckily, it doesn’t seem unnatural

for me to stand in front of the newel post while I do this with everyone crowded into the foyer. I can see Carol trying to

angle herself so she can look at it more closely, but I do everything I can to block her while also trying to make it look

natural.

I talk about the decorations. Each historic house on the tour gets a historical period and must decorate like that period would have, so I go on a long lecture about how our bright, colorful decorations evoke the period of the 1950s.

Then I point toward the kitchen, even though usually I’d move into the living room and the library. I feel like it’s easier

to lead them away from the newel post this way. “From here, we’ll move into the kitchen. A more modern addition, but with

some interesting historical touches.”

“Don’t we usually head into the living room at this point?” Carol interrupts as I make a move to take them toward the kitchen—away

from the staircase.

Why is she interested in the living room? I thought she was here to spy on the newel post?

Then I remember the nachtkrapp on the rug in the living room. She isn’t focused on Azrael. She’s looked at the mermaid, the newel post, and now wants a

look at the rug. She’s essentially checking up on anything cursed in Wilde House.

I smile wide, because this is actually a relief. She might suspect something, but she doesn’t know what. She can only guess.

I can work with that.

“Usually,” I say brightly. “But I decided to change it up this year. The kitchen is the heart of the house, and I think to

understand the rest of the house, you have to understand that.”

I can tell there are no cursed magical creatures in the kitchen because Carol looks bored and irritable, though she’s still

gleaming . There is something alarmingly youthful about her face, which is not something I’ve ever noticed about Carol Simon before.

Once I’ve said absolutely everything I can think to say about a kitchen, with anecdotes about the warmth of Grandma Lillian

Wilde—which, yes, I know will annoy Carol, who never liked her much and had a hand in her early death—I move through the rest

of the downstairs, always watching Carol to see if there’s some other cursed magical creature I’ve never noticed before.

When we’re in the living room, she stands right on the rug. I see her dig her heel into the bird’s heart.

When we head upstairs, my nerves pick up. Because I don’t know for sure if Azrael is in the newel post, and I don’t dare look.

I’m worried it will cause Carol to pay far too much attention.

But, in a move born out of habit more than purpose, I run my hand over the newel post as I start my ascent up the stairs.

It’s warm again, that impossible heat I used to tell myself was my imagination. Now I know better.

Azrael.

But I can’t linger. Maybe it’s him. Maybe he’s simply sent his magic into the post. But he’s there in some way. I glance back

and see Carol do the same thing I did.

Then she snatches her hand away, as though she’s been zapped with electricity.

I have to smother a smile.

Upstairs, I go through the same process. I answer questions from eager humans and keep my eye on Carol. There’s a lamp in

the shape of a Piasa bird in the second-floor hall, but she seems more interested in looking out any windows that overlook

the river.

I think back to this morning in my library. I thought I heard that same song that’s been teasing me lately floating up from

the river. Does Carol hear it too?

And... is that good, or terrifying?

Maybe I need to find the source of it before she does. I should mention it at our next coven meeting.

When I finish the tour of the upper levels of the house, all securely magicked to be as impressive and anodyne as possible

no matter who happens to be living here at any given time, I lead everyone back downstairs. Carol gives the dragon newel post

a wide berth, but also a little smirk. As if she’s won.

I’m glad she thinks so.

Personally and strategically.

I herd the group out onto the sidewalk outside. “And now you’ll all head to the next stop on the tour, the Pendell home,”

I say, and point toward my father, already standing out on his porch.

He waves. I wave back. We’ve done this for the past five years. I always follow up my wave by proudly telling the crowd my

father is a fantastic historian—witches know this means his designation is Historian, not just that he likes to research arcane topics as many

humans do in historic villages—and will have great information for them about the Pendell house.

But that man... is not my father. I don’t know what he is to me.

Knowing who I really am is tricky and hasn’t gotten any easier overnight, but I can’t even really sink into all the ramifications of that, because

Carol stands right next to me.

“Did you enjoy your first foray into the archives?” she asks, as if we’re good friends and she’s deeply interested, not just

evil. This close, I notice that her forehead is entirely smooth, like she finally succumbed to the spell version of Botox.

I play up that smile I’ve spent my whole life perfecting. “I did.”

“Do you still think the entire witching public should have access to everything ?” She nods over at my father, who’s greeting the tour group.

I’m glad for all the years I spent pretending I don’t know what anyone’s talking about. Because her purposefully pointing

out my parentage hurts, and I don’t like it. I haven’t figured out how to deal with it yet, and she’s known all along .

I’m a mix of furious and hurt and uncomfortable.

But my smile is sunshiny bright, because there’s a reason Carol has not used this secret against me—or Emerson, or Desmond,

or whomever. I don’t know what it is yet, but I know it exists. “Yes, of course. Knowledge is power, Carol.”

“Say the power hungry.” She snorts, as if she’s made some hilarious joke. “I can just picture Emerson charging into those archives thinking she’d be able to get all sorts of answers.”

“Maybe she did.”

“Don’t lie , Georgie. It makes you look dimmer than usual. I know how the archives work. Only the Historian...” She trails off. There’s

a moment where Carol Simon looks thoroughly shocked. Then furious.

“Only the Historian can what?” I ask innocently enough, but I think I know. Only the Historian can wield what’s inside the archives , something in me asserts, as if I have always known. I think back to last night and how Azrael... touched nothing. Only

I did. Only I could .

That means Carol couldn’t either in all her long reign. And she didn’t want me to know that.

Which is maybe why I say the next thing, even though I know I shouldn’t poke a wounded animal. Because she might be losing

her place as leader of the witching world, but I am not dim, and I know that there’s something in Carol that’s still dangerous.

But I don’t stop myself. “Then why did you kill your Historian, Carol?”

Her eyes narrow. Magic snaps in the depths, but it feels... weird in the air between us. Staticky and garbled.

I want to believe she’s truly weakening. I want to be amused by this pathetic attempt at being intimidating.

But there’s an unhinged desperation in her eyes, deep, deep down, that still manages to scare me.

“No coven really needs their Historian, Georgie. Don’t you know that by now?” She shakes her head as if she pities me. “Who

needs knowledge when you control everything either way?”

I’m not sure that tactic ever would have worked on me, but it’s interesting how she keeps trying to use it on the women in

our coven. So sure that if she can make us feel less than , we’ll cower.

We haven’t yet.

“This coven does,” I tell her. “Because our history, our knowledge—it’s going to be for everyone . And that is going to be our power. Not control. Not fear. Not lies .”

Then she smiles at me—my own tactic used against me. She leans in close, pats my arm. “Of course it will, Georgina. Of course.”

The way she drawls out my full name feels like a curse. Particularly when she walks away, whistling like something out of

an old horror movie.

Then she just straight up cackles and disappears.

For a moment, I’m frozen. But I’m not just stiff. I’m cold . I want to go inside and sit by the fire. Or my dragon. I turn, but glance once more in my father’s direction.

Except the porch is empty and the door is closed. He’s inside, giving his tour. And I...

I don’t know what to do, or how to feel. All the determination I felt this morning feels off-kilter now that I’ve had a Carol

run-in.

I walk back into Wilde House and still don’t feel any warmth. Even when I close the door behind me and lean against it.

Azrael swirls out of the newel post, this time with only a slight shaking.

He leaves it intact behind him, all that blue-and-green smoke pouring all around me, moving all over me like a caress.

Then he’s a man, rolling his shoulders and moving his neck from side to side, like being in the newel post was uncomfortable.

He frowns down at me.

“You’re shaking.”

I hate that I am, but I like that he notices.

That he notices everything. Though I can’t ignore the fact that Carol still trying to play her mind games really does make me feel a bit dim and slow, since we haven’t figured out what’s next.

Sure, weak people use threats to feel powerful, but she still feels powerful.

Even though we won. We beat her and her cronies fair and square. So...

“Why does it feel like it isn’t over?” I ask him as he comes closer. I lean against that hard wall of muscle that he calls

a chest, trying to find some comfort in it. And I realize how often I have done this, come to my newel post for comfort. Not

because I didn’t want to be a burden to my friends, or even honest with them, but because this always was comfort.

But his words aren’t comforting at all, even as his arms come around me and he tucks me in close.

“Because it isn’t,” he tells me, and I can feel the truth in the words the same as I can feel the rumble of them in his chest.

“As long as they have access to dark magic, it’s not just not over . It’s dangerous. For everyone.”