Page 55 of Dragon Fires Everywhere (Witchlore #4)

Azrael drops my father off on the outskirts of the wedding crowd in a quick, smooth move that I appreciate. He doesn’t really

slow down, but still manages to place my father outside the fray, near a growing snowdrift that might give him some cover.

This is where he belongs.

The wedding situation has deteriorated, to put it mildly. Our coven stands on the stage in defensive positions. The onlookers

have created a kind of circle in the audience.

And in the middle of that circle of people below the stage is Carol.

Her hair is wild. Her skin seems to be... melting. Black, oily swirls stretch out in coils from her fingers, which is nauseating.

But much worse— much , much worse—is what’s erupting from the ground as if it’s being pulled out like some kind of dark afterbirth by those black tendrils.

It’s that hideous creature from the book. That shuffling, disgusting patchwork of evil.

It’s huge. Not only monstrous... an actual monster .

Not the suggestion of monsters we’ve fought off all year, but a real one, like the red-eyed horror show adlets that attacked Emerson in March.

And it seems to have a kind of gravitational pull. Chairs and heaters whip in the wind it kicks up, crashing against its immense

body. It doesn’t seem to care.

My stomach threatens to come out my throat, and my heart is clawing at my ribs. Some witches seem frozen in horror, not that

I can blame them. Others are screaming. Still others are scrambling, running away, or trying to take cover in the alleys and

shop doors along Main Street. Some braver witches are trying to fling their magic at Carol. It only bounces back.

But I am also brave. And I am part of the Riverwood. Brave or not, handling this is our duty.

Azrael lands us on the stage, and I rush to swing myself down from his back, sword in hand, until I’m standing there in all

my state in front of my friends.

“It’s like the book,” Ellowyn says, gazing at me while holding a blast of magic, aimed at Carol. “It’s like my dream .”

I don’t know what brave looks like on my face, but I do it. “Let’s make sure that dream has a happy ending.”

Rebekah grins at me, lazily, like this is a garden party instead of a horror show. “Badass, Georgie. I like it.”

“Zander, Frost, try to clear the area of bystanders,” Emerson belts out then, swinging back from what looks like a quick recon

of the wedding guests. Of course she’s calm enough to hand out assignments. “Azrael, does your fire do anything to black magic?”

He lets out a flare of it, like a test. Or a warning. “Not permanently, but temporarily it can break the bonds dark magic

can make.”

“Go, use it,” she tells him. “Break whatever bonds Carol has formed.”

And she keeps going. “Jacob, gather the Healers and help where it’s needed.

I don’t see a lot of injuries, but I think the number is going to climb.

We know she likes a body count. Rebekah and Ellowyn, find a safe place away from this mess.

Try to come up with spells that can do damage from a distance. ”

“Potions are poison if used properly, and I know just the thing,” Ellowyn says with a grim kind of glee.

“Georgie, you and I are going to get down to Carol.” She studies me, then looks out over the destruction of her wedding. Still

in her white dress, though while we stand there, she divests herself of the veil. “I think I should have a sword too. After

all, I am the Confluence Warrior.”

I try to hand her mine, but she shakes her head. She reaches up, pulls down a light from the sky. Like she’s done this a million

times before, when I know she hasn’t. When I know the last time she wielded this sword was earlier this year, and it was Jacob’s

first.

But that’s more sword-wielding than I’ve done.

Now we stand, hip to hip, with our swords before us like we’ve spent lifetimes wielding them with ease.

In front of us is what I can only call a black magic tornado.

And we see tornadoes in Missouri, but I have never wanted to hide from one of them.

This is much bigger, much blacker, like a swirling wrongness that wants to eat us all whole.

Behind it stands Carol, cackling like the twisted lunatic I’ve always thought she was while her giant zombie swipes its limbs

about, throwing witches every which way. Like they’re nothing more than broken bits of confetti.

It’s sickening.

Zander and Frost are working to funnel people into the alleys and away from the main fray. They’re getting some people out,

but it requires a lot of magic and effort to block Carol and her zombie’s attacks.

“We have to get through that tornado,” Emerson says.

I look at it dubiously, but when Emerson charges forward, striking her sword directly into the swirl of evil, I move with her. I hack and cut away at it and the little tendrils of black magic that slither between the bricks at our feet, through the gathering snow, and up around our ankles.

When I look up again, I see Emerson’s sword has somehow melted in the black magic tornado.

“That is... not good,” she says grimly.

Then she grabs me, and we’re flinging ourselves back. Away from that terrible, dark spiral.

But if the swords can’t stop it, what can?

I look around again. Zander and Frost are still helping people. Jacob is healing folks as fast as he can. Rebekah and Ellowyn

are hurling magic and what looks like various potions at Carol and the zombie from a spot on the roof of the bookstore, but

it’s barely penetrating.

“If we expend all this energy protecting people, we aren’t going to have enough to stop it,” I tell Emerson. “We need everyone.”

We need unity, I think. We need more than witches .

A screaming missile of oily residue flings itself at us. I hold up my sword and throw out magic, and Emerson does the same,

but it keeps coming—

Until Azrael swoops in front of us, blasting fire from his mouth and stopping it in its tracks. It falls to the ground with

a nauseating splash.

He roars out his triumph and hovers in the air near us.

“Thanks,” Emerson offers. “I don’t suppose you can melt them all?”

“I would if I could.”

“Could you try?” And she sounds a little less upbeat than usual, so I know she’s scared.

Emerson scared makes me... terrified .

It’s like Azrael feels the shift in me. He looks down at us, at me, his gaze a blaze of gold. “I have an idea,” he mutters.

“All ideas are welcome,” Emerson says.

Azrael shifts in a fury of light, and comes down to kneel over me, his expression more ferocious than his actual dragon form. He takes my chin in his hand and presses his mouth to mine.

It’s a hard kiss. Almost bruising.

It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever experienced.

“Don’t die while I’m gone,” he tells me fiercely.

Then he leaps up, throwing himself into the air and changing back into a dragon as he does it. He soars high, bellowing and

shooting fire down below.

“You still have your sword,” Emerson says quietly. “You need to use it, Georgie. I’ll make another one for me, but I think

we should assume it will only be temporary.”

And when she looks at me then, it’s not as a Confluence Warrior. It’s not as my coven leader. It’s as my best friend.

My sister.

We’re losing. I know we’re losing. Too many witches are held tethered by black magic tentacles no matter how Frost and Zander

try to get people free. Familiars have joined the fray, pulling people out of the tornado’s pathway, giving Frost and Zander

more time to cut away the black tendrils of evil.

But the tentacles keep coming. The snow keeps falling, natural and magical alike. And I think there must be some kind of bubble keeping us from reaching out to witches beyond St. Cyprian, because no one is coming to help.

If we’re going to lose this, though, we’re going to do it fighting.

Me and Emerson, like always, even back when our biggest concerns were that the boys got called on more in kindergarten than

we did (Emerson) and that there was never a good recess- to-class ratio (me).

We give it our best. I go around slicing through as many black magic tendrils as I can, but it’s useless. They grow back twice

as fast. Emerson is on her fourth sword. I’m tired, and there’s been no progress.

Only snow and screaming.

There’s one hope, I think. One thing that can save us.

I strike through a few more black tendrils popping up through the bricks. I turn to Emerson and grab her with my free arm.

“You and Jacob have to finish the vows,” I tell her desperately. “I’ll try to hold Carol and that thing off. But you need to get on the stage. Finish the vows. It doesn’t have to be pretty. You just have to mean it.”

Emerson looks at me. She’s used to calling the shots, but I don’t think she fully understands what’s happening the way I do . The crows. The fabulae.

“It’s the only way,” I tell her.

She nods—maybe because it’s not like there’s a better plan—and then she flies off to find Jacob.

Meanwhile, I am left to fight.

Not alone, exactly. The armies of crows, along with Zander’s and Ellowyn’s bird familiars, are diving at tendrils that get

too high, clawing through ones that hold witches captive. It’s a losing battle, and the crows are already weaker than they

should be since they’re working to get around a curse to even be here, but they fight.

We all keep fighting.

Melisande has joined Ellowyn and Rebekah. Their bombs are better aimed, but have little effect. Still, it just goes to show,

if we can get more , we can get better .

Jacob and Emerson scramble up to the stage as Carol’s scream echoes between buildings. She screams louder, and bricks start

crumbling off, tumbling down facades. Windows are shattering. Jacob narrowly blocks Emerson from a hurled brick. Then she

stops shards of glass from flying at both of them.

“They need guarding,” Zander says, suddenly next to me, flinging out his own magic. He’s left Frost and a few familiars to keep helping people out, but we’re losing ground. Black tendrils of evil keep shooting up from the ground, grabbing more and more witches.