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Chapter Twenty-Five

T horne

The glowing stone splits open and something organic, leathery, and slimy slithers out onto the hearth.

Briony squeals and scuttles backwards across the floor.

“What is that?” she cries.

“A creature of some sort,” I answer, examining it more closely. The thing is covered in a thick slime similar to the yolk of an egg and it’s difficult to make it out as it wriggles beneath the translucent goo.

“Is it alive?” Briony asks, venturing a little closer.

It appears so. The creature struggles in the goo, twisting and turning its sinewy body until finally a small head breaks through. It takes a lungful of air and then it squawks.

“Is it a bird?”

It has a pointed beak so the guess is reasonable and I can make out a pair of wings folded in the slime. But I don’t think it’s a bird. Or a griffin.

“A dragon.”

“A dragon?” She laughs. “That’s impossible.”

“A rock calling you towards it sounds impossible, don’t you think?”

She tuts and leans over the creature. “Do you think it’s dangerous?”

I snort. The little thing is small enough to fit in the palm of my hand. “I don’t think so.”

The creature squawks again and blinks open a large pair of eyes. Its irises are bright gold, dazzlingly so, as it blinks right up at Briony.

“Aww, it’s so cute,” she coos. She scurries away and comes back with a threadbare towel, scooping the small creature up into her arms.

“Hello, mister,” she says, wiping the goo from its body. “Were you hiding inside all that time?”

With the goo gone, it’s easier to make out the creature’s body.

It has four stubby legs with black talons at the end of each toe.

Its body is long and tucked against its back are the pair of wings – made from paper-thin skin and not littered with feathers.

Down the center of its back runs a prominent spine and its skin is covered in coppery green scales that sparkle in the firelight.

It is a dragon. There is nothing else it could be.

The little thing curls up in Briony’s hands, snuggling into her stomach and squawks some more.

“We need to take it to the Headmaster. A message needs to be sent to the Empress and–”

“He needs feeding.”

“After we’ve–”

“Newborn babies need food. ”

“It’s not a baby.”

“He is,” she says, scowling at me and hugging the thing protectively.

“You don’t even know if it is a he,” I mumble.

“Milk. That’s what we should feed it. Do you have any back in your tower?”

I pause before answering that question because I see where this is going.

“Yes, but, Briony–”

“Look, Thorne,” she says, “you could be right and taking him to the Head is the right thing to do–”

“I am and it is.”

“But we don’t know that for sure and until we do, I’m not going to be parted with him.” The little dragon snorts a puff of smoke issuing from his nostrils as if he is in agreement with that point. “You promised you wouldn’t tell anyone about the stone and you said you’d respect my decisions.”

“That was before the stone became a dragon.”

“It’s the same thing.” She strokes the little dragon’s snout and the thing begins to purr. “Now please can you fetch some milk?”

I’ve been a fool. Letting those words slip from my mouth.

I’ll do anything for you.

This girl is going to hold me to that.

Funny thing, I ponder as I head towards the door, I don’t think I care.

“Oh, and it’ll need to be warm,” Briony calls after me.

“Right,” I say, reaching for the door-handle.

“And we’ll need something suitable to use to feed it to him. A teaspoon maybe or a syringe.”

“Fine. ”

Halfway across campus, I doubt my decision to leave our thrall alone with a newborn dragon. It looked helpless and tiny. What if it’s not? What if I return to find her badly burned or scorched alive?

I flex and fist my fingers.

I’m catastrophizing. The girl has already survived far worse. Beaufort described the scars on her back. Beaten to a pulp, were his words. If she withstood that, she can handle a dragon.

I hope.

Five minutes later I’m heating milk on the stove.

“You’re back,” Dray says, bounding into the kitchen in nothing but a pair of sleep pants. “What was it the little kitten wanted to show you?” He grins. “Was it her pussy?”

I stir the milk. What do I tell him? Dray is my bond brother. We haven’t kept secrets from one another since the bond between us activated – the day Dray, the youngest of the three of us, turned eighteen.

But I promised Briony. I made a scared promise. I can’t break it.

“Her room,” I say. He isn’t convinced.

“Her room. Right,” Dray says, still grinning. “Sure she did, pal.” He jumps up onto the counter, legs swinging and watches me stir the milk. “What the hell are you doing?”

“She wanted some warm milk.” At least that isn’t a lie.

“Oh man, I knew it. You are gone for this girl.”

Tiny bubbles appear in the milk around the edges of the pan.

“Aren't you?” I say.

“Fuck, yeah, totally.” He sweeps his hand through his long hair. “I didn’t expect it to be this strong. Did you?”

I shake my head.

“Beaufort has to be right,” he says, “even though …” He li fts up his arms and peers at his wrists. Then drops his hands back into his lap. “Do you think she feels it?”

I consider his question, switching off the heat and pouring the milk into a hip-flask.

“Yes,” I say, “yes, I think she does.”

“Man …” he mutters, the grin on his face stretching even wider. “Maybe I’ll come back to her room with you.”

“No,” I say abruptly, screwing on the top of the flask with more force than necessary.

“We’re bond brothers. That means sharing, Thorne.” He pouts like a kid who’s had a toy snatched away.

“Does she want that?” I point out.

I’ve been told over and over again by Dray that we are every woman’s walking fantasy.

Three powerful shadow weavers bound together by our bond, forced by fate to share a mate.

Every woman, according to Dray, wants to be that mate.

But Dray talks nonsense. I’m not sure Briony would want that.

She’s only just coming round to the thrall idea.

“I spoke to her about it,” his eyes twinkle, “you should have smelled how wet she got at the idea.”

“Not tonight,” I growl and stomp out of the kitchen, hoping he doesn’t decide to follow me. You can never tell with Dray.

I find Briony lying on the bed, curled round the little dragon.

She presses her finger to her lips. “He’s sleeping,” she mouths.

I nod and place the flask of milk on the floor by the bed. Then I return to my spot by the door.

Briony strokes a forefinger over the dragon and my gaze flits from her to the little creature and back again.

I can’t decide which is more fascinating. Dragons have been extinct for hundreds of years. This may be the first dragon born in centuries, nestled in Briony’s bed.

And yet, as fascinating, as crazy as that is, my eyes are drawn back to the girl.

She’s even more fascinating. The way she curls around the dragon like a cat. The way the firelight dances in the golden strands of her hair, the way her body falls and rises in curves – nipped at the waist, rounded over her hips and her backside.

She’s taken off her academy blazer now it’s warm in the room and rolled up her sleeves and her skirt has risen up her thighs. Inches of bare skin, milky white turning pink with the fire.

Does she have any idea how much it’s killing me, tearing me up inside, shredding me to pieces, that I can’t touch her? It’s all I want to do. All I can think about.

Just to rest my ungloved palm on the flesh of her thigh, to feel the heat of her skin, the softness of it.

I’ve cursed this stupid affliction before. Railed at fate and my inability to touch. But not like this. I’ve come to accept it over the years, to come to terms with my fate.

Only now it’s so much harder.

She must feel something in my magic because she looks up from the dragon to me with curiosity and then she smiles.

A genuine, sweet smile, like she’s happy in my company, content.

People smile at me. But it’s not often. Not often at all.

When they do, it’s with a greed in their eyes. They want something from me.

This smile is different.

“He’s so cute, isn’t he?” she whispers .

Fascinating maybe but I would not describe the bony scaly creature as cute.

Beaufort has wondered aloud over and over again why fate has picked this girl for us, what it can mean.

He told me about the torture, about the scars that riddled her back.

She clearly has no hidden powers. Yet, all along she had a firestone, a firestone that called her to it, a firestone which has now hatched into the first live dragon in centuries.

This must mean something. What did Beaufort see in that flash of a vision and what can it mean?

Briony’s words stir the little thing and it mews and nips at her fingers.

“I think he’s hungry,” she says.

“The flask is right there,” I tell her.

“Could you pass it to me please?”

“You know I can’t.”

“We can be careful,” she says.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” I don’t want to hurt you like I hurt them. I don’t want to lose anyone else precious to me. I refuse to let it happen.

“You won’t,” she says. “I trust you.”

The girl is incorrigible.

I walk back to the bed, pick up the flask and place it on the mattress. She’s still smiling.

“See, the world didn’t end.”

“This isn’t a joke,” I say.

Her smile fades. “I know. I’m sorry.”

She unscrews the lid and I squat to sit on the mattress in the small sliver of space beside the bed, watching as she takes a sip of the milk to check it’s not too hot.

The little dragon sniffs at the air and mewls.

“You want some, huh?” she asks it, then directs her next question to me. “Did you bring a spoon? ”

“No,” I say, “I forgot.”

“Hmm,” she says, “never mind.” She dips her little finger into the milk and holds it out to the dragon. It sniffs at her digit and does nothing.

“He doesn’t know what to do,” she says, gently guiding her finger between its beak. “Jeez, that’s sharp.”

The little dragon starts to suckle, when he stops, she dips her finger in again and repeats the process.

“How do you know how to do this?” I ask.

“Oh,” she nudges her finger into the dragon’s mouth. “I once found a kitten in the forest. I guess it had been abandoned. It was a matter of trial and error to get it to eat. This proved the best way.” Her face darkens. “Then Muriel discovered her and … well …”

“Muriel?”

“My step-mom.”

“She was the one who beat you.” I say it as a statement. If the woman was cruel enough to harm a kitten, I bet she was cruel enough to harm her step-daughter.

Briony says nothing, fussing with the dragon.

“Would you like me to kill her?”

“What?” she says, alarmed. “Who?”

“Your step-mom.”

She chews on her cheek and I can tell she’s considering it. “No,” she says finally.

I’m glad she doesn’t make me promise, though. Because that is a promise I may not be able to keep.