Page 39 of Dragon Fires Everywhere (Witchlore #4)

The next morning we’re all up early at Wilde House before the Christmas Around the World parade. We all have our assigned,

volun- told , and occasionally chosen roles.

I’m dressed up like Saint Lucia, complete with white dress, red sash, and wreath of candles on my head. I leave Azrael’s necklace

that he gave me in my jewelry box and ignore the little pang it gives me.

When I get downstairs, Emerson is dressed up like a Victorian Mrs. Claus, and—in a surprising twist—somehow got Jacob to dress

up like Victorian Santa.

I do not ask how. I suspect it involves very private promises.

He looks a little gray, and I have a bad feeling that means another black magic attack. When Emerson gives me a brief nod,

I know I’m right. It’s a concern. There have always been hints, here and there, that black magic has reached out and swatted

at people this way, but the continual attacks every few days feel like a ticking time bomb.

But what can be done if the archives won’t give me answers?

I try to push this disappointment away and focus on the happy festivities at hand.

Zander is dressed up like Scrooge, which took only a little pleading from Ellowyn—the kind he never would have succumbed to before this year, no matter how many secret Beltane trysts they shared.

Ellowyn herself got excused from the usual costuming on account of pregnancy.

This year she’ll just ride on our float, decked out in a dramatic cloak decorated with evergreen and berries, embodying Yule and the upcoming solstice while tossing candy to the watching kids.

Frost refused any and all costumes as a matter of course and dignity, as he put it—but that only means he and Rebekah got

put in charge of walking next to the float and handing out pamphlets .

Emerson, Rebekah and I worked hard on them. My historical knowledge, citations, and ability to translate both into simpler,

more straightforward explanations work well with Emerson’s uncanny ability to know just what kind of questions people might

have. And Rebekah makes everything visually pretty with her graphic design wizardry.

Humans who get their hands on a pamphlet will only see a sweet rundown of the different floats and Santa Clauses—or comparable

winter solstice figures—from different countries and traditions.

Witches will see a thorough explanation of fabulae, true covens, and how we intend to proceed with this knowledge. Freeing

Azrael, yes, but also finding and freeing other magical creatures. Working together .

It’s been the Riverwood promise since we were nothing but a group of friends.

Emerson was keeping me updated on the votes about Azrael’s fate on an hourly basis until I asked her to stop. Last time she

told me it was close, but still in favor of keeping him imprisoned. I told her to just let me know when he’s free.

When , not if . I’ll deal with him then.

Today, I’m focusing on St. Cyprian. On a festival .

I always love this time of year and all the different holiday festivals Emerson manages to pack into a few short weeks.

How no matter the weather, people come out and support this little town of ours.

How the Yule season—regardless how a person or witch or magical creature might celebrate it—is one of togetherness.

Of braving the dark winter march toward the light together .

Emerson grabs me before we all head out for the parade. “Where’s your sash?”

I look down. I could have sworn I put it on, but it is indeed missing. I try to magic it into my hands, but it doesn’t appear.

I frown a little, but quickly give Emerson a bright smile. She’s on edge for a lot of reasons, hyped up on caffeine and what

she always calls festival adrenaline . Best not to worry her.

“I’ll be right back,” I assure her, and magick myself upstairs to my bedroom. The sash is on my bed, tucked under a book.

The fairy tale.

Always the fairy tale.

“Do you have something to tell me, finally?” I mutter at it. I snatch it up and see that the cover has changed, but no matter

how I stare at it, I can’t make sense of it.

The princess is still in the foreground. The dragon is off in the back. Still there, still clearly watching, but not a part

of the narrative.

“I’m not a fan of that,” I tell the book, but I focus on the princess. And the parts I can’t make sense of.

There are now crows everywhere around the princess. A circle of violet-eyed ones surround her, and it looks like a few of them are putting a

necklace over her head.

I peer closer, at the princess and the necklace in one crow’s beak. I blink, because it’s... familiar.

I think—I know— I have a necklace like that. A swirling mix of purple, blue, and green in one teardrop-shaped crystal.

I drop the book and walk over to my jewelry box. Since time is limited, I mutter a quick spell to reveal the necklace to me. It lifts up out of all the other crystals and jewelry, so I grab it and slide it over my head.

The book has not led me astray yet, and this necklace has been in my collection so long I don’t even remember how it got there—if

someone gave it to me, if I bought it, if I found it somewhere, the way I sometimes do. It’s just... always been here.

I decide—I hope— that means it’s only made of good magic and supportive energy. Even though I’m a little leery about trusting in my crystals

again.

I hurry up and tie the red sash around my waist, then transport myself downstairs so Emerson doesn’t become totally unglued.

She immediately grabs my hand. “We’ll magic ourselves over to the assembly area.”

She doesn’t even give me a chance to help. Propelled by her own magic and one of Ellowyn’s energy teas, she’s got us all to

the courtyard, where the parade people are assembling and getting ready to start.

Emerson immediately marches away, but I stay where I am, facing the river. It’s a bright, sunny day, making you think the

sun might just fight off the frigid air. The snow from last night’s storm clings to the trees and rooftops, and there are lingering patches

of snow and ice on the bricks. Across the icy river, I can just barely see the archway of the cemetery. And the new dragon

statue that glints in the light, like a threat.

That pokes at some of my cheer. Something about what the Joywood did to him that day has changed everything, and I hate it.

If he wasn’t imprisoned, he’d be with us. Though he’d have to be pretending to be a human still. Pete from London.

I wish he was part of this, but really a part of it. Not as a dragon hiding in a human spell, but as himself. Dragon or man form.

Free, and safe to be who he pleases.

But I don’t want to be mad at him, worrying about him, pining over him today. I want to enjoy this damn parade.

“Where’s Gil?” I hear Emerson ask.

I turn to look at the Joywood contingent.

They’ve got their own float, a whole Charles Dickens thing, though several of them are missing.

Not just Gil Redd, who normally helps at things like this.

And I recoil a little bit as I look at them, because every single one of them except Carol looks like they should be residents of the cemetery.

As in six feet under.

“Gil isn’t feeling well,” Carol says tersely. Her hair is a honey shade of blond in a beautiful, wavy twist—instead of its

usual frizz ball, but considering the rest of the Joywood all look like dressed-up zombies, I wonder if that means both Gil’s

legs disintegrated or something equally problematic they can’t magic their way out of.

I make a mental note to see if black magic can rot a witch from the inside out. It seems not just plausible, but more and

more possible. Especially considering they’re now missing three of their coven members.

Maybe we don’t need to defeat them at all. Maybe we just need to wait them out. I eye Carol’s youthful appearance.

Or not.

We assemble on our float, taking our places as explained to us in the usual intense detail—complete with charts—by Emerson.

The parade begins at the exact time she planned. The floats begin to move. We sit and wave as we slowly proceed down the street,

while Rebekah and Frost walk a little ahead of us, handing out their pamphlets.

Emerson and Jacob are supposed to sit and wave and maybe toss out some candy to kids. But as ever, Emerson can’t help herself.

She’s on her feet in no time, walking next to the float, then stopping at every group of witches that gets a pamphlet to talk

to them.

I watch her, and more importantly, the witches’ reactions to her. She makes eye contact, she grasps hands, she holds all the

babies and makes a fuss over all the little kids. It’s very politics , maybe, but there’s a genuine light that shines out of Emerson when she does these things.

Even dressed up like Victorian Mrs. Claus.

I can hear her voice, certain and sure. “Think of all the things that have changed in the past year, all the things that we’ve

learned have been hidden from us. Is that how we want to go on? Hiding from the truth ? We saved St. Cyprian from the flood and the dark magic in the confluence by not doing that.”

The way she says we clearly makes people think they were included. Like they were part of everything we did. I expect someone to point that out,

but they don’t. The fact she wants to include them clearly wins some people over.

The Joywood—whose float is right in front of ours—are scowling. Rotting and scowling. Though I still think only we can see

it. Every once in a while, I see Felicia wave a hand, and some of the pamphlets go flying, or spontaneously combust.

But not many.

They just don’t have the all-encompassing power now that we’ve been voted in. They’re dwindling in numbers. They’re literally

losing body parts.

Yet I have absolutely no doubt they’re planning something. Something Carol-centered, maybe. Knowing them, something devastating.

I just wish I knew what .

The parade finishes up, though Emerson is still doing her thing. The rest of us mill about at the end of the parade route,

waiting for her to be done. Jacob is talking with some of the volunteers who are dealing with breaking down the float itself.

Zander is making noise about getting Ellowyn off her feet, even though she was sitting the whole time and is looking as if

she’d like him to sit down and shut up for a change.

I find it comforting that their spiky dynamic remains unchanged at its heart, despite the fact they let themselves show the

affectionate part too these days.

I sigh happily and absolutely do not think about Azrael. Mostly because I hear a bird making an ungodly racket somewhere near me. I turn, searching for the sound. I expect to see everyone else turning to look too, but I seem to be the only one who hears it.

Just like that haunting music from the river—

But then my eyes land on the perpetrator.

And I know this is nothing like that melody.

A smaller black bird is standing in a narrow alley, almost perfectly framed by the sunshine and shadow.

Is it a crow? Like in the book?

I can’t tell, but one thing I can tell is that it has violet eyes.

Just like that damned book cover.