Page 41 of Dragon Fires Everywhere (Witchlore #4)

I am now facing down an angry Azrael and Frost, the ancient dream team no one wanted.

“Why not?” I demand of them at the same time Emerson and Ellowyn do. Emerson because she’s in charge. Ellowyn because she

takes immediate affront to a man—any man—insisting it’s his way or the highway.

“Magical creatures, every last one of them, are mercurial and untrustworthy, with no regard for laws or rules,” Frost says

darkly.

“Sounds an awful lot like every immortal I’ve ever known,” Rebekah offers offhandedly, earning her a glare from Frost. Though she only has to smile for him to soften.

“I suppose those feelings about us are why you spent centuries reveling in the killing of these mercurial, beneath you creatures?” Azrael asks Frost, and his tone isn’t offhanded at all. It’s vicious.

“If I reveled in it, you’d already be dead,” Frost returns coldly. “We cannot give in to the opaque demands of whatever random

fabulae managed to get around the Joywood curse. It sets a dangerous precedent.”

“Besides,” Azrael adds, his wildly golden gaze shifting back to the Raven King, “this one in particular is a murdering, thieving upstart.”

“I take great offense to the upstart part,” Gideon offers lazily, apparently fine with murder and theft. “Are the immortal and the dragon agreeing simply to thwart

me? What interesting bedfellows we keep when we’re afraid of the truth.”

“The only truth I am having trouble taking on board is that you are the only magical creature I know of that found a way around this dark magic curse,” Frost says.

“And why should we free you from it? So you can turn your dark magic on us?” Azrael demands. “I have no need to taste the

petty vengeance of blackbirds in this lifetime.”

I study Gideon. I have no reason to trust this man—or raven, or whatever he is. I have every reason to trust Frost, and more reasons than not to trust Azrael.

Still, there is also something about trusting my own gut. If I don’t believe in my own intuition, what is there to believe

in?

“We want everyone free,” I remind dragon, ex-immortal, and the rest of my coven alike. “From all curses. It’s not our job to tell anyone what to do with that freedom or hold a Joywood curse over anybody’s head. That is not our role. That’s not what we do. It’s what we’re trying to get away from.”

I turn to Emerson, who is nodding along. She even offers a subtle fist pump, always and ever the highest possible compliment

from my best friend.

And neither Frost nor Azrael has a retort to that.

I take a few steps toward Gideon, ignoring Azrael’s warning growl. And anyway, there’s nothing he can do about it from his

side of the cemetery gate.

There is something familiar about this Raven King, and I can’t figure out what. Is he in the book? Have I dreamed him?

It doesn’t matter. A curse is wrong, and if I can undo it, I will.

“I’ll read the book, but I don’t think it will work the way you want it to,” I tell him, carefully, because he’s the kind of being that makes every word feel like a vow. “There’s more to this, but I will try, because the Riverwood doesn’t want to see anyone suffering under a curse.”

“Yes, he certainly looks like he’s suffering,” Azrael mutters.

But I ignore him. I whisper a spell to bring the book to me. This in itself feels like a bad sign, because if we really needed

it—if this was supposed to work—wouldn’t the book appear on its own?

Still, there’s no harm in trying. The book materializes in my hand. I’ll read the Raven King what freed Azrael and hope it

does the same for him.

As if this is all the boring frivolity of the peasantry, Gideon is once again sprawled out on his tree branch, appearing almost

half asleep.

But I know better than to believe the way powerful creatures appear .

The dragon tear is warm against my collarbone. I feel... fractured, and yet it’s not bad. Just like the pieces of myself

have detached into multiple sections and are standing next to each other.

Not a loss , just a rearranging.

I shake the thought away. I look down and begin to read the same passage I read Azrael only a few weeks ago. Maybe I don’t

say the words with as much bitterness as I delivered the words during that post-Sage debacle, but I try to imbue each word

with some kind of magic.

But for all the strange connection I have to Gideon, I know nothing is happening. No curse is being lifted. Nothing is being

changed .

When I’m done, I look at him, and he is scowling. His violet eyes seem to glow with an unleashed violence. I can see each

and every one of those things Frost warned of—mercurial and untrustworthy being the least of them.

And yet I am not afraid.

“Do it again,” he demands.

I lift an eyebrow at him, a look I have perfected for use on young people running amok in the museum on field trips.

His scowl deepens, and his violet eyes are nearly pulsating with that glow , but when he speaks—through clenched teeth—I can tell he is trying to not be quite so demanding. “Try it from the beginning.” He pulls a face. “Please.”

I don’t need anyone to tell me that the Raven King does not use that word often.

If at all.

I nod and do it again. When it fails, I try yet again. Emerson and Ellowyn have to head to their stores, Zander to the ferry,

and Jacob leaves two different times to attend to Healer matters. But Frost and Rebekah stay through the duration.

We do it a few different ways. I even try a dramatic reenactment of how I first delivered the words to Azrael-as-newel-post.

But nothing works as the afternoon slogs on. Nothing changes. No curses are lifted, and magic barely ruffles the breeze around

us.

The sun is beginning to set. I see Gideon eye it with frustration. Then me. With a lot more than frustration. “So much for

everyone being free, Georgina. I do not truck with liars.”

“Doubtful, as one must truck with oneself,” Azrael mutters, but it doesn’t matter, because in a sparkle of magic, Gideon is a violet-eyed raven, flying

toward the confluence and leaving us all behind.

I look up at the pieces of my coven still here. “I really did try.”

Rebekah puts her hand on my shoulder. “You tried harder than anyone else would have. It wasn’t the book, and you knew that.

Come on, we’ll take you back to Wilde House and—”

But I shake my head. I need to have a private conversation with him.

Rebekah gives Azrael a distrustful look. “When you’re done, head right to the farmhouse. Or Zander and Ellowyn’s,” she says. “No flying over the river alone.”

I nod, the memory of the black in the river trying to take me under too vibrant to even want to argue. Rebekah gives me one last look, delivers something closer to a scowl to Azrael, then steps over to Frost. They

disappear together, hands clasped.

I turn to Azrael. I can see he’s trying to adopt a very I don’t care about anything expression and demeanor, but he’s failing. A million frustrations exist in his eyes, brighter than the black or the gold.

Part of me wants to stay outside the cemetery limits, so I can keep this fence between us and hurl as many accusations and

bombs as I want.

But arguments are not the answer. Only knowledge is. It might be frustrating, but I will continue to work toward information,

answers, and solutions. And no one—not even my beloved—will get in my way.

I walk through the cemetery entrance. “Why do you hate each other?” I ask him.

“I cannot tell you.”

I roll my eyes. “Honestly, Azrael, it is ridiculous how much I have to fight against you to help your own people.”

“Georgina, I cannot tell you. I wish I could.”

I realize then, this is what he told me before. Our past lives are not something he can discuss with me. He is saddled with

the memories, and I must live without them. Even knowing they’re there.

So many curses, restrictions, lies, and wars. So much foolish disagreement and pointless infighting. I know in my heart we

can’t win anything worth having like this. With anger and distrust and curses .

But why can’t I figure out what we can do instead?

“I saw my past lives, Azrael.” I don’t mean to say that. Or the next thing, but I do. I can’t help it. “I saw us die.”

“Yes, but did you make any sense of it? Do you know how many bodies your soul has had? Or was it just a whirling jumble?”

I frown at him. I don’t think I told him that. But he is correct.

“You are not meant to know your past lives, Georgina. I have told you this.”

“Then why does that damn book keep trying to show me?”

He shakes his head. “You don’t understand.”

“You won’t let me!” And okay. Maybe that came out louder than I meant it to.

Not that it gets through to him.

“Your soul is important, precious, and it has learned many lessons, but it must also inhabit the body it is in,” he says in

that same weary way. “You must be the person you are in this time. Being cluttered up with old lives that no longer matter will not aid you. That is why I told you to leave it behind.

That is why, when faced with a memory of the past, I told you to let it lie .”

I stare back at him, but it makes sense, I suppose. Still, I think of all the knowledge I would have if I could remember.

If I could see . If all those pasts weren’t a whirling jumble, but facts .

The kind of facts one finds in an archive.

Maybe he can’t tell me, but does that mean I can’t find out who I was?

“Go to your coven. Your archives. Fight the Joywood and their black magic. Stop...”

“Stop what?”

He takes a breath and fixes me with a detached kind of expression. It reminds me of Emerson in her politician mode. Any traces

of his own feelings are hidden behind this mask.

“You did not listen to me before. Will you listen to me now, when it matters the most? We must not fraternize with the crows.

They are dangerous. They are not to be trusted. They will betray you.”

I am already shaking my head before I realize it. “That isn’t true, Azrael.”

“It is true. I have lived this truth.” He pounds a fist to his chest. A show of emotion. Of desperation.

But I know he’s wrong, and it hurts. Being at odds seems to make all of those lives pointless, surely. I want to tell him

that we can both be right on this.

Until he says, “If you cannot listen, I cannot be who you want me to be.”

I feel as though I’ve been struck. “Is that a threat? Some sort of manipulation technique?”

“It is how it must be.”

“I can’t ignore the Raven King when he’s in my book, when I feel...” I wrap my fist around the necklace. The dragon’s tear.

“You’re wrong, Azrael. You must trust me .”

We stare at each other for a long time in nothing but a throbbing, painful silence. At an impasse. Neither of us willing to

give an inch.

Fairy tales might be stories of princesses and dragons and people being saved by courage and love... but they are not without

the dark, the loss.

Maybe this is ours.

Maybe in this life, we survive, and this is how I lose him.

“I will give the Riverwood my magic when the time comes, if I can,” he tells me, almost solemnly. “I will be the Riverwood

fabulae, but that is all. You must accept this.”

He’s so serious. So determined. And I do not understand .

“I guess you should take this back, then?” I slip the ring off my finger. My heart beats painfully against my chest. It’s

a bluff. A desperate one. Because what if he takes the ring back? I don’t want that any more than I want him imprisoned here.

He stares at the ring but doesn’t immediately take it. The tight band around my lungs eases a little. He won’t do it. I called

his bluff and—

Azrael reaches out then and takes the ring from my hand. He stares at it for a moment, then snaps his fingers. It disappears.

It’s just... gone .

I feel like I’ve been impaled . “So, that’s it?”

“If you insist on dealing with the crows? Yes. I will save you, if you will not save yourself.”

“No explanations? I don’t do what you want and you just decide our souls don’t belong together.”

He studies me for a long time. “If that’s how you see it? Yes.”

His lack of emotion is maddening. It’s... unacceptable. It’s a tragedy . “You are the most useless, selfish asshole of a fabulae or soulmate I could ever imagine.” He only looks at me like these

words don’t matter in the least to him. “Have you ever cared about anyone else in your entire set of lives? Have you ever

been anything more than a selfish bastard?”

“No,” he says simply, his eyes too hot to bear.

Each accusation hurts me more than him, apparently. Everything hurts me , and nothing hurts him.

And that’s fine. Better to know it now. And hey, he’s not pulling his Riverwood support, right? So what does this matter? Old souls meant to find each other—and we did.

Maybe all we’re really meant to do is die. Or break.

Maybe our fate is that instead of dying, we realize this was never meant to be.

“Emerson said the vote was getting close,” I tell him. I don’t sound like myself or anyone I recognize, but I can’t care about

that. I only care about the way I look at him now, pitiless just like him. “Should you be freed, don’t come to Wilde House.”

And then I fly away.