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Rachel

T he roar of the furnaces fills the hot shop, a steady thrum that vibrates in my bones as I focus on the molten glass at the end of my blowpipe. Colors swirl under the intense heat, shaping my thoughts into tangible form. It is in this dance of creation and fire that I lose myself, the outside world fading to a mere whisper.

That is until the workshop door swings open and a rush of cooler air sweeps through, prickling my skin. I glance up, and there he stands: a man with an aura that blazes like a wildfire, its fierce reds and oranges unlike anything I've seen before.

My heart skips a beat, my dragon sight piercing through the everyday to glimpse something extraordinary. Not only is his aura as brilliant as the fire in the furnace, it has a distinct corona of amber that I've learned signifies the person is seeking something. Through all that, I still can't miss that his physique is sculpted to perfection. His short, styled red hair catches the light like polished copper, and that unmistakable glint in his eyes as he scans the room betrays his true nature.

The only dragons on the island are three Black Shadows and three White Guardians, all six of whom also have mates. This is the first time I can recall a Red visiting.

The school's founder, April Vincent, rises from her workbench and makes her way over to him, along with Stuart, one of her Guardian mates. As the Red waits, he scans the shop, his gaze coming to rest on me. A flare of recognition widens his eyes, though I've never seen him in my life. In that moment, an unfamiliar tug in my chest tells me something monumental has just occurred without a single word passing between us.

April's greeting tears his attention from me, and I shake off the odd sensation still threading through my torso, returning to my project. He isn’t for me. He’s just here on dragon business.

Despite the momentary distraction and the lingering burn in my belly, my focus easily returns to the glass, a medium as familiar to me now as my own breath. It's as if molten glass flows in my veins, the way the material responds to my whims even through an interruption. The delicate, heated glass goblet rotates at the end of my spinning punty, slower now as it cools enough to remain solid, until I'm confident it's finally complete.

Sending a nod to my assistant, I signal my readiness for the handoff. My precise tap strikes the rod at its junction, severing the connection to the last half-hour's toil. The fine Venetian goblet begins its descent, gently captured by my assistant's waiting gloves, before being carried to the annealing furnace for tempering.

Sweat slips down my temple, defying the soaked bandana around my forehead. I tilt my water bottle for a long drink and swipe away the perspiration.

I try not to look at him again, despite how much my interest is drawn to him. Out of the corner of my eye, I'm aware that he's still talking to April and Stuart.

Occasionally, an outsider finds their way to the island where St. George School of Art stands. Their arrival is no accident; only those whose fated mates are here can set foot on the island's shores. If he's here, he's meant to be. But whether he's meant for me or some other member of the Bloodline who resides here remains to be seen.

I'm not about to go charging at this sexy new arrival like a woman starved for attention, even though that would be the truth. What if that look wasn't meant for me? What if this hyperawareness of his presence means nothing?

I grit my teeth, seize the blowpipe, and thrust it into the furnace, gathering more molten glass to begin another goblet. Part of me is tempted to follow in my friend Nemea's footsteps—craft a sex toy and use it to lure a god who will whisk me away.

Not that I don't love the island—living here for the past month has been the best experience of my life, but I'm more aware of the passage of time with each magical creature who arrives and claims another student as their mate.

It's been two days since Nemea vanished, leaving barely a trace. I'm pretty sure she's been claimed by some horny god, considering her mission to summon one with that magic dildo she crafted. Her aura, a swirling kaleidoscope of hues, could only mean Chimera blood infused her. According to what I've heard from April, this means she requires a cadre of potent mates to forge a complete bond. April herself has six.

April's lack of concern about Nemea's whereabouts is disconcerting, though. She disappeared the day after confessing to losing time and showing me a pile of unusual sketches she'd been doing, all of powerful gods, and not all of them the good kind, though good is a matter of interpretation, I guess. If anything, school management seemed relieved she was gone, though security has been tightened a bit for reasons as yet undisclosed.

I do hope my friend's in good hands, at least. Once I witnessed her aura and saw the sketches she'd made, it was clear she was destined for something monumental. If I could manifest my fate by drawing it, I would, but I'm so bad at two-dimensional art, it isn't funny. I'll stick to glass, and using my dragon sight to help my friends understand their natures better.

At least my ability has helped Audra and Sean. Their auras revealed enough to give them hope. Most students' auras clearly reveal what race's blood runs through them. Audra’s is a vibrant green, suggesting ursa blood, while Sean’s—a sharp, silvery blue—speaks of his turul bloodline, or maybe a mix with nymphaea.

Audra's one of the few whose mates live and work on the island, so despite being mated now, she's still here, happily continuing her studies while spending her nights in a pair of ursa instructors’ bed.

I have dragon blood, this much I know. My ability to see auras is enough of a clue. Plus I'm becoming a pretty skilled glassblower, if I do say so myself. An affinity for fire is as sure a sign as any that a student at St. George carries dragon blood.

We're hybrids, though, so only through practice with the various elements can we determine what sorts of powers might manifest. My dragon sight is the most useful talent I've discovered during my weeks here, and perhaps my endurance in the glass shop. If I have any other draconic talents, I have yet to discover them.

As if in response to my errant musings about dragons, a roar slices through the hot, dry air of the shop, a primal sound that makes every hair on my body stand on end. It reverberates through the walls, drowning out the constant hum of the furnaces. A series of startled cries follow.

Before I can fully process what’s happening, the Red springs into action. He bolts for the door, his aura sparking crimson with purpose. In one fluid motion, he shifts, his body—clothes and all—dissolving into scales and wings. His transformation is both graceful and terrifying, an explosion of red as he bursts through the open doorway and into the sky.

I catch a flash of gold out the window—another dragon, gleaming like a sunbeam against the backdrop of a clear blue sky. The red dragon is on its tail, chasing it higher and higher. Their forms become distant blurs of color against the vast expanse of blue.

Around me, everyone has stopped working. The noise, the sudden movement, has paralyzed us all for a moment. I try to play it off, feigning indifference as I turn back to my new project. My hands move on autopilot, shaping and forming without real intent.

But my mind is not here.

It’s up there in the sky with those dragons.

I can’t deny what I feel—a stirring that has nothing to do with curiosity and everything to do with longing. Longing for what? Understanding? Belonging? Power? It doesn’t matter. It distracts me at a crucial moment.

The glass in my hands shatters, fragments raining onto the concrete floor like ice chips. The failure snaps me back to reality, embarrassment flooding my cheeks as everyone turns their attention to me.

“Rachel! Are you okay?” Frida, my assistant for the day, asks, breaking through the stunned silence.

I nod quickly, waving off her concern, even though I feel anything but okay. Things break in this studio; it goes with the territory. But it always feels like a failing.

"Yeah, just lost focus for a second."

I stare at the jagged remains at the end of the pipe and the shards littering the floor, not sure whether to start over or find something else to break on purpose. The dragons’ roars still echo in my ears, mingling with my own frustrated thoughts.

"Time for a break, Rachel?" Stuart chimes in. He eases the blowpipe from my hands, his touch on my shoulder meant to comfort. "Better to come back tomorrow with a fresh perspective."

I let out a sigh, feeling a bit defeated. "Yeah. I need to step away for a bit. Maybe a hike will clear my head."

"The blackberries on the western bluffs should be ripe about now. But be careful if you go up there. Finn, our visitor just now, is hunting a rogue feral dragon. Looks like he found him. They're probably long gone, but be vigilant, okay? Maybe take a friend."

I mull over his suggestion as I reach for my water bottle, then empty it in three long swallows. Feral dragons versus some perspective gained by a walk. I could see what Sean's up to and drag him along. He's usually game to wander the island.

"Blackberries sound pretty good. I like the way you think, Stu." I rise and tug my bandana off my forehead so it hangs around my neck, then gather my backpack and head toward the door.

"See you tomorrow, Rache," Frida calls out, taking over the bench under Stuart's guidance.

I step out into the sun, letting its rays kiss my face, the crisp Pacific Northwest air filling my lungs. The smell of bread baking in the kitchens of the main lodge hints at a promising dinner, but that isn't for a few hours yet. A few harried-looking students linger in the quad as I pass through, murmuring about the dragons who interrupted a peaceful afternoon. But no one seems to have been harmed, just frightened, and things get back to normal quickly.

There's no denying the idyllic peace that permeates the island, and it's a beautiful late summer day—the perfect time for a hike.

I head up the hill toward the movement studio, planning to rope Sean into joining me for blackberry picking. The studio, which I don't frequent much aside from the morning tai-chi classes, overlooks the rest of the school and the Puget Sound, the mainland of Seattle to the east. Today, strains of slow, seductive music filter out through its open windows.

I peek in and see a dance unfolding. Sean's in there, his leggings and flowing shirt outlining his tall, lean form as he sways close to a long-haired woman, while a man with a guitar sets the rhythm. Sean's aura seems to dance too, taking on a warmer sheen as he glides with the nymphaea tai-chi instructor.

I've seen Sean's aura enough that it's no surprise to find him with creatures of wind and water. There's this tune he always taps out when he's restless, and it's the same unique rhythm of the song playing now. I've heard that turul have a fragment of a song in their souls, which is never complete until they find their true mates. Looks like Sean's found his.

I step back, leaving them to their dance, a tinge of loneliness hitting me as I face my solitary hike. I try to shake it off, treating it as an opportunity for some quiet self-reflection. A bit of apprehension builds too. Are those two dragons still about? The possibility should frighten me more than it does, but it only urges me on, and I walk faster as if to outpace the agitation of my missed opportunity with the Red, if that's even what it was.

The day is beautiful, with late summer showcasing the island's lushness. It's the perfect setting for my climb to the western overlook.

Several yards up the winding path, I stumble upon a blackberry bush laden with ripe fruit. "Jackpot," I whisper, tasting a few before moving on.

The path meanders upward through towering cedars, and I take my time, letting the rhythmic crunch of my boots on gravel soothe my earlier frustration. The sun tracks steadily overhead while I climb, warm enough to make me grateful for the intermittent shade. When I reach somewhat level ground again, I'm rewarded with what has to be one of the most beautiful vistas on the island.

I have a 360-degree view up on this peak, overlooking the shoreline with the water in one direction and the island's smaller hills and valleys in the other. I'm sure I can see all the way to Canada from up here.

And to top it off, there are even more blackberries growing in thick brambles all the way down the steeper west-facing side of the mountain. I gather the ones I can reach, then find a warm, smooth rock to sit and bask in the beauty this place offers.

Closing my eyes, I tilt my face up to the warm afternoon sunlight. The gentle breeze carries the briny scent of the sea and the sweet aroma of the blackberry bushes surrounding my perch. I breathe deep, savoring this moment of solitude.

A screech from above makes my eyes fly open. What appears to be two large birds wheel in the sky, talons extended as they grapple. I squint against the sun's glare to make out their shapes—eagles, perhaps, by the look of their massive wingspans. I'm transfixed as they tumbled through the air in a tangle of talons and flapping wings.

So magnificent, and so clearly dead-set on murdering each other. But when I shade my eyes, I realize they aren't birds at all.