Page 35 of Dragon Fires Everywhere (Witchlore #4)

It doesn’t take long to gather everyone in Jacob’s cozy little farmhouse. This afternoon’s attack and baying mob have left everyone on edge, or that’s how it seems when every single one of my friends—including Frost—makes a big deal over

me and how I’m still standing when I haven’t had time to think about it.

When I’m not sure I want to think about it—that song, the burning crystal, the slick and greedy tug of all that black, the moment before Azrael descended

when I thought all was lost—

I focus on the farmhouse instead, because we’ve spent a lot of time here over the past year. It’s looking far less like a

single, solitary man lives here these days. There are lots of colorful, organized touches from Emerson everywhere I look. They’ve melded their lives into one life, and that will only become more and more

a thing.

Once they get married. Take all those next steps.

For a moment, I’m struck by that idea. A future beyond ascension. Beyond this longest year. My friends will get married, have babies, live very adult lives—all while we run the

witching world.

You know, if we can get past all this dark magic business.

And where will I be? I wanted the future to be Sage because that’s what my mother told me I was destined for. I gave it my

very best shot.

But I’ve always known, even when I didn’t want to, that I was destined for dragons.

I think all these doubts are the same doubts she planted in me when I was small. Maybe all mothers try to make a fortress against fear, and end up

jailing their daughters there. Maybe that’s a kind interpretation of what my mother did with a child she intended to lie to

for the whole of her life.

But I believed those doubts. I internalized them, one after the next, like facts .

Facts that made Sage seem like the best prospect, no matter that I had more feelings for the fictional characters I read about.

I was taught so well. Fiction and feelings were for silly little girls. Grown women who wanted to fight the ruling coven needed

facts and rationality.

But the dragon is a fact, and so is what needs to be done.

“We need to do a past life regression on me,” I tell the assembled group once everyone has settled and I’ve answered all the

questions I intend to about how I feel in the wake of the attack. I hold out the book the archives gave me. “This tells us how to do it. Ellowyn has to lead it,

but we all need to help.”

There’s a beat of silence. And one by one, everyone looks to Emerson. Our leader through all of this, every step of the way.

The one all final decisions go through. She’s made a lot of tough, fair choices this year. Maybe soon I’ll be able to consider

that agreeing to imprison Azrael was one of those. Maybe.

Right now, though, is the first time I’ve ever seen an expression on her face that makes me think she doesn’t actually always want to be the one deciding.

Because she doesn’t want to agree, but she doesn’t want to hurt me either.

“I know the Joywood have lied to us and skewed our pasts beyond recognition, but some things remain true,” she says gently. Kindly. I brace myself. “Witches and past lives...” Emerson sighs. “It doesn’t make sense. We’ve dealt with ghosts. We might not

know everything that happens on the other side, but we know that’s the next destination.”

Meaning we don’t do reincarnation dances through the ages.

“I know I’ve had a past life because I know I’ve been her.” I point to the cover of the fairy-tale book that I set on the coffee table. The one that currently shows

a dream the princess is having. “If that’s not a sign to do a past life regression, I don’t know what is.”

Emerson picks up the book and studies it, looking like she wants to agree with me.

Which isn’t the same thing as actually agreeing.

“The past life regression outlined in this book is for a fabulae,” Ellowyn says, not looking at me, as if this is a betrayal.

And I certainly feel it like a betrayal, so she’s not wrong there. “Not a witch. And we’re just now learning about fabulae.

Magical creatures. We don’t know that they’ll react to magic the same way we do, which means this is risky until we do some

tests or research or something.”

She looks at Frost, as if hoping he’ll know how to test what needs to be done.

Somewhere in my rational brain, I know that my friends are being cautious because they care about me, because they don’t want

me hurt. But it’s hard to absorb that right now when I know this is the next step.

Frost is standing by the fireplace, looking at the crackling flames as if they are revealing the mysteries of the universe

to him. “Unless...”

I stare at his back, holding my breath. I can’t convince all of them, but if the first, original Praeceptor is on my side...

“The archives showed Georgie this book about past lives,” he says. “And this fairy-tale cover changes, as if sending her messages. This is a true fact, yes?”

Everyone nods in agreement, but no one does it more emphatically than I do.

“Let’s say this fairy tale is true. Or could have been true or has some truths in it.” He looks up from the fire. “We know

it does, because Ellowyn is, in fact, a Revelare.”

We all look at Ellowyn and her gemstone eyes that mark her a new—or rather, old but Joywood-obscured—designation. The book

led us to that revelation. The book and some ghostly help.

Frost is looking over toward Emerson and the book from the archives that she’s still holding. “In this fairy tale, we have

a dragon and a princess with magic having a romantic relationship.” I am about to jump on that, but Frost’s cool gaze slides

to me, and I bite back my words. “What if that means they could have had children together?”

That sends a kind of shiver round the room, or maybe only through me. I think about that night that started in the archives

and catapulted us into the stars—

But Frost is still talking. “If that’s possible, why wouldn’t other witches and magical creatures have done the same? And

if they did, that would make some of their descendants part witch and part fabulae.”

We all stare at each other. This is something we were all explicitly led to believe was not possible, even while also being

encouraged not to believe magical creatures could exist. It’s hard to take in even if you haven’t been cavorting about with

a dragon.

“That seems far-fetched,” Zander says with a frown after a minute. He looks at Ellowyn and her enormously pregnant belly.

“Wouldn’t we know if we were part magical creature?”

“We didn’t know magical creatures existed, much less were cursed and murdered in the Joywood’s time,” I point out. “How would

we know if we’ve got fabulae in us?”

“It could be just another thing we’ve lost,” Frost says, frowning. “Not really any more far-fetched than your resident half witch, half human having a three-quarter-witch child.”

“Blood.”

Everyone looks at Jacob, who is not prone to just blurting out words . He looks up at all of us as if he didn’t mean to say that out loud, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“It’s in the blood,” he clarifies. “Just like humans, witches have blood types. Healers have lots of theories about how and

why these blood types developed, and there’s not necessarily an ancestral link between people with the same types. Zander

and I have the same type. Frost’s and Ellowyn’s witch side are also the same. But Emerson and Rebekah and Georgie all have

the same blood type, and we know there’s a genetic link between them now. It could mean nothing, but theirs is more uncommon

than the rest.”

“What are you saying?” Emerson demands.

He holds her gaze steadily. “If Frost is right, if Georgie is right, then... there might be evidence of fabulae blood in

the Wilde line, in the blood type you three share. We’d have to do a much deeper study, but it’s possible.”

“Wouldn’t the family tree you found tell you that, Georgie?” Ellowyn asks.

“If I researched it, I could confirm it if it’s true, but the tree is just names and dates—not designations or any other information.”

I look around at my coven, thinking about blood and friends, family and magic. But my gaze lands on Ellowyn. “We have to set

up the past life regression. If I have fabulae blood, that makes sense. It’s why I had these previous lives with him.”

“It could still be dangerous, Georgie,” Emerson says, putting the book back down on the table. “Think of all the spells that

nearly took Ellowyn out. And Zander.”

“They were thwarted by the Joywood using her blood against her.”

“Who’s to say the Joywood might not use yours against you? They know we know about fabulae. Maybe they know about this. It’s too risky.” She tries to smile encouragingly at me. “I know you’re upset that Azrael is imprisoned, but he’s okay with it. Let’s take our time. Let’s breathe and think.”

Emerson and I don’t fight. We don’t argue. Even when we were girls and all our other friends were having all those typical

girl gossips and backstabbings and dramas, that was never us .

But I’d fight her now. With everything I am.

And it’s not that Azrael is more important to me than she is. It’s not because everything is changing. It’s not because I

feel left out.

It’s because this is the most basic truth I know: We have to do this.

I feel it in my bones.

“It wasn’t too risky when Ellowyn and Zander and the ghosts fought off the blackness. Or when Frost sacrificed his immortality.

Or when you dived into the middle of the confluence when it had been compromised by black magic.” I am growing more heated

with every example. “You had to do it. They had to do it. I have to do this .”

Emerson stares at me, that same thread of hurt in her expression that was there when Corinne disagreed with her, even if Corinne

was right.

It’s like I stuck a knife in her, and I can’t stand it.

“I have to do this,” I tell Emerson, not as my friend. As a Historian speaking to a Warrior. “I wouldn’t insist on it if I

didn’t believe it.”

For a moment, there is only silence. And it feels like the entire room, the entire decision, is hanging there between us.

Emerson and me.

Her leadership against my needs.

But I know that even if she says no, I’m going to find a way to do it anyway. No matter what it takes.

Maybe she sees that too. “Should we go to the cemetery to do it?” she asks quietly. “Azrael—”

“This is just us,” I say firmly. Because I am pretty sure he would not approve of this, and anyone who’s not in can get out,

as far as I’m concerned.

And I can’t let myself sag in relief that Emerson has agreed. I have to keep charging on.

We read through the book and arrange ourselves just as it says.

Me in the center, Ellowyn in front of me.

We sit, cross-legged, knee to knee. It reminds me of the ritual we did at Confluence Books back in the spring. When we discovered

Emerson was a Confluence Warrior.

I don’t let myself think about how the dark magic reached in and nearly got Emerson that time. I won’t let myself think that

way.

The rest of the coven arranges itself around us. The indoor familiars fill in any holes. I can feel Octavius at my back.

“First, we all need to relax,” Ellowyn tells us. “This is a very calm spell. We’re not trying to change anything or stop anything.

We’re gathering information, and we need to go in with an objective observer’s mindset.”

I think this isn’t aimed just at me, though it feels a little pointed. But I’m not the only one on edge. I can feel it all around me. It’s been a day , and now I’ve convinced everyone we can do this thing. Or that we have to, anyway, when we’re witches who have always been

taught that there is a clear progression from life to afterlife, with very few alternatives.

Past lives have never been on the witch’s menu of possibilities.

I feel a moment of regret then. Or maybe it’s a hesitation, because I suddenly feel all the things my mother has tried to

impress upon me my entire life. Why do I think I’m the only one who knows these things, feels these things, is these things?

Why can’t I be content just being a quiet Historian witch from a long line of Historian witches?

Because I’m not a fucking Pendell , I think savagely.

Because the dragon is real. The necklace he gave me full of crystals that did not burn me sits around my neck, because he is mine, and I am his.

Because the book keeps changing, and I know what I feel.

I always have.

So I follow Ellowyn’s instructions.

“ Spirit, moon, air. Past, present, wild, tangled before , open to us ,” Ellowyn murmurs. She places her hands over mine on my knees. “Find a well-traveled soul, and show her well.”

At first, it’s hard to understand what I see as I soar deep into that kaleidoscope of images, all of them not the same me,

but me. There are too many versions of myself. Too many versions of Azrael as dragon and man. I can’t connect to what I’m

seeing.

It’s too much, too fast.

No matter how I try to center myself, it whirls around me. I can’t put the timelines together. I can’t make sense of it.

It pours over me and all around me, like it’s that river again, pulling me in. And everything is caught up in the rush of

it.

Except one thing.

One thing I see repeated again and again and again.

One red thread.

The magic begins to release its hold. The river is calm again, no rush and no whirl.

And when I open my eyes to Ellowyn’s violet and sapphire Revelare glow, I don’t know what I was supposed to get from that,

but I know why Azrael didn’t want me to see the past. All our beautiful chances spread out behind me.

I look at the members of my coven here with me, save one. They’re sitting around me in a circle, looking worried and tired,

because they don’t know what I saw. Only the energy it took to show me.

“Well?” Zander asks.

Emerson’s gaze searches mine. “Did you find what you wanted?”

My throat is so tight, it almost feels like I’m being strangled. “I found information,” I say. “They were all very different

lives, except for one thing.” I make myself keep talking. I make myself say it. I follow that red thread. “Azrael dies. Or

I do. Violently. In every single one.”