Page 5

AVERY

T he roar was deafening— literally —my ears were ringing as it echoed off the high walls of the little-used gymnasium. Juan whipped around, looking over his shoulder, and I tried to focus on what—or was it a who?—coming through the gym door.

At first I couldn’t see anything—my vision was still blurry from having my head used as a punching bag. But I could sure as hell hear the roaring.

“Mine…MINE… MINE!!!”

The last statement was a bellow so loud it seemed to shake the rafters and the ground below my feet.

I stumbled and would have fallen if several of the Drakes hadn’t still been holding me by the arms so Juan could punch me without having the bother of my hands getting in the way when I tried to shield my face.

At last the intruder came into focus as he came closer—it was Saint, my roommate—and I had never seen him looking like he was now.

Normally Saint was pretty quiet, for a guy with a cursed Drake living inside him.

He was tall, dark, and devastatingly handsome with high cheekbones and penetrating black eyes—but also completely off limits.

Why, you may ask? Well, because he came from pretty much the most homophobic society in all the Realms. The Drakes absolutely hated anyone in the LGBTQ community with a passion, which made the fact that Juan and his friends liked tormenting me not too surprising.

Saint could be hard to read. He’d never been cruel or demeaning to me, despite the fact that I was out and proud.

He also didn’t display the typical straight guy’s aversion or distain for me as a gay guy.

Once or twice I’d even had the feeling that he liked me despite his upbringing.

Or maybe that his Drake liked me, which honestly, is pretty scary.

Having a cursed Drake choose you as his special person is kind of like having a serial killer get a crush on you.

I knew in Saint’s culture, the Drake chose the person and the human he was tied to went along for the ride. But did the Drake in question ever choose another male? I mean, was that even possible?

I had no idea but the way Saint looked right now, I thought I might find out—the hard way.

His normally obsidian black eyes were pools of melted flame.

I’m being serious here—you always read in books about someone having “flaming eyes” but in this case it was the literal truth.

Saint’s eye sockets were filled with two burning infernos and what looked like lava was rolling down his cheeks like some kind of horrible tears.

I had seen a partial change before—hell, Juan Gonzalez had just done one, letting just the snout and head of his Drake come out so that he could breathe fire at me. But I had never seen anything like the madness and torment I saw staring out of my tall, dark roommate’s eyes as he approached us.

Then a pair of wings sprouted from his shoulder blades.

Huge wings, black as night with crimson inner linings—they tore through his uniform shirt and arched overhead, brushing the ceiling twenty-five feet above.

They shadowed the entire gymnasium and everywhere their shadow touched, a feeling of doom descended.

This must be what it feels like when you’re going to die and you know it but you can’t do anything about it, I thought, staring up at him.

The lava tears rolling down his cheeks were dropping onto his white uniform shirt and burning right through, leaving black, hissing holes wherever they fell.

His big hands were clenched into fists and his body was trembling. With rage? Somehow I didn’t think so.

He’s trembling because he’s trying to hold it back—hold it in—and he’s losing control, I thought and knew I must be right. Saint’s Drake was coming out and he was inches from losing it.

He turned those flaming eyes on Juan and the Drakes holding me and roared again, “MINE!”

The possessive pronoun seemed to refer to me and I had the feeling he was telling the Drakes to let me go. I had the further feeling that they wanted to let me go and get the hell out of there, but everyone seemed to be frozen in place by the horrible feeling of dread the cursed Drake exuded.

For myself, I was frozen too. Let’s be honest—it was like being claimed by the Devil himself, with those burning eyes bleeding lava and the immense, sail-like wings casting the entire room into shadow and dread.

Emma had told me that when she’d felt Saint’s Drake, it reminded her of the Balrog from the Lord of the Rings—a creature of flame and rage and roiling darkness that shouldn’t be messed with under any circumstances.

Someone was going to die here today if something didn’t happen soon.

And then, something did happen—Coach Vasquez came rushing out of her office, her eyes wide as she screamed at Saint.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing? By the first egg, how dare you shift forms in my gymnasium? Put your Drake away right now , Mister, or I’ll have you suspended. You?—”

Her voice died in her throat as Saint turned those flaming eyes on her.

“Dios,” she whispered, taking a step back and bumping into Juan in the process. “The Blood-Drake—he’s coming out!”

If he comes out, someone is going to die and the chance that it might be you is not inconsiderable, whispered a little voice in my head.

Saint’s Drake might want to protect you, but it’s just too big.

If it goes on a rampage, there’s going to be carnage everywhere—everyone is either going to be ground into hamburger under its claws or knocked twenty feet into a stone wall by its wings or cooked by its fire.

Somebody has to stop it and it looks like you’re elected, Avery.

This wasn’t the first time Saint’s Drake had started coming out when it felt like I was threatened.

I didn’t know why it had taken such a liking to me—to be honest, I’d been sort of trying to ignore it.

But now things had reached a critical juncture and the fact that it seemed to like me might be my only chance to de-escalate the situation before gym class turned into a blood bath.

I took a deep breath, trying to nerve myself up for the encounter.

“Get off me,” I muttered to the two Drakes still clutching my arms. “I need to talk to it—to him—or we’re all going to die.”

What I said seemed to get through to them, because they let go of my arms and started slowly backing away.

I wished to the Goddess that I could do the same, but the impending sense of doom was still thick in the air and the threat was still immanent.

I had to do something—only I didn’t know what to do.

“Saint,” I said, stepping towards him though every single cell in my body was screaming for me to run the other way instead. “Saint, look at me.”

He turned that burning gaze of his from Coach Vasquez to me and I had to swallow hard before I could continue. I saw madness in those eyes—a burning hell of misery and confusion and pain. A never-ending rage that reached out to encompass everything it saw.

And all of it was currently aimed at me.

“Saint,” I said again, daring to put my hand on his arm.

Under his white, long-sleeved uniform shirt his muscles were rock-hard with tension and his skin was burning hot, as though he had a raging fever.

“Saint, you have to calm down,” I told him. “You have to de-escalate.”

“Hurt,” he said to me and there was an odd double-echo in his voice like someone was speaking through him. It was his Drake, I realized, and had to work hard not to flinch when he brought one burning hand up to brush my wounded cheek, which was tender where Juan had punched me.

His fingers had started to turn too—long, black claws were sprouting where his fingertips had been. But though they were razor-sharp, I felt nothing but the gentlest brush when he touched me.

“Hurt,” he said again.

“Not so much,” I said, trying to smile and make light of my facial injuries—though the right side of my face was throbbing like a rotten tooth.

“Hurt,” Saint’s Drake insisted. “They hurt you.” He glared malevolently at Juan and his cronies and then switched his faze to Coach Vasquez. “She LET you be hurt,” he added, which showed that he was much more perceptive than one would expect a huge, cursed, demonic beast to be.

I could see where this was headed—if he kept focusing on my attackers and on the teacher who had allowed the attack to happen in the first place, his rage was going to build again and then the shit—and probably a whole lot of dragon fire—was going to hit the fan.

“Hey, no. Look at me. Saint, look at me.”

I dared to reach up and cup his chin—his skin was almost too hot to touch—and turn him to face me. Those burning eyes met mine again and it was like looking into the pits of Hell—but I didn’t look away.

“Look at me,” I repeated. “Concentrate on me—on Avery . I’m all right, Saint—I’m fine. It’s all right to let your Drake go back now—it’s okay to relax. I’m okay. Everything is okay .”

Little by little, I could feel my tall, dark roommate relaxing.

Slowly the tension left his shoulders and his skin began to cool.

The immense black wings shrank and folded out of sight.

At last even the burning eyes became no more than embers.

But before Saint’s Drake left, he had one last thing to say to me.

“Mine,” he rumbled, cupping my cheek with a hand which had fingernails again instead of claws. “Avery is mine.”

And then, finally, he retreated completely and I was left standing there in an extremely awkward position with my roommate cupping my cheek and staring intently into my eyes.

“Avery,” he began, in his normal voice but he didn’t get a chance to say anymore than that.

“Both of you to the Headmistress’s office, now!” Coach Vasquez hissed, giving us a venomous look. “And if I have my wish, you’ll both be expelled before the day is out!”