Page 63 of Silent Jay

God damn it, no, brain. He’s mean.

You like mean. He’s just trying to rile you up, and you’re letting him.

Damn it.

“I think a blood-red hoodie would look best with your skin tone,” he purred. “I’ll be back to pick you up.”

With that, he shot into the air. I shook my fist at him with a dopey smile I couldn’t get rid of plastered to my face.

“Nice of you to join us,” a woman’s deep voice drifted from behind me.

I turned, schooling my expression, to see five women dressed in simple red wrap dresses standing at the bottom of a small crater. The dark rock under their scaled feet crisscrossed with light quartz to create the interlocking runes for fertility and fire.

One woman beckoned to me, and I balled my fists before trotting the few yards down to the group. Instead of antagonizing me, Tyson could have clued me in on what I’d be doing here.

You played along, squeaking every time he asked.

I fucking did.

I slid to a halt in front of the little group, their hair, and occasional scale in various shades of red and pink. Like most dragon shifters, three of the five were ageless – their beauty youthful but mature. The remaining two appeared young, maybe in their early twenties, not that I was great at guessing ages.

A familiar figure off to the left caught my attention. Still shrouded from head to toe in white, the dragon shifter, who I’d dubbed Grey Eyes and had been with me when I first woke up on this island, sat with her back straight, trying to look at me without looking at me. I stared flatly at her, and she blinked her big, smokey eyes before shifting her gaze to the ground.

“She’s visiting from another temple,” One of the more mature priestesses said, stepping forward and demanding my attention. A tight bun of orange-red hair circled the top of her head, and a gold tiara hung between her sculpted eyebrows.

Her full lips pursed as her eyes skimmed over me. “You must be Betty.”

I nodded.

“And you're human.”

I nodded again.

“And you can’t speak.”

I nodded a third time, pointing at her and pretending to shoot a gun.

“Right.” She rubbed her temples. “Well, do you have experience in dance?”

I shook my head.

“Acting?”

I shook my head again.

“Any theater at all?”

I shook my head a third time but refrained from making the shooting motion.

“Right.” She rubbed her temples so hard it dented them.

If she hadn’t been acting so dramatic, and I wasn’t trying to identify my abductor, I might have attempted to reassure the woman. Saying I’d participated in a few rituals in my thousand years alive would be an understatement. In the twelfth century, I’d gotten a big enough ego to dedicate a temple to myself. It hadn’t worked out well, not at all. I’d made a terrible goddess, and large groups of young women were overly emotional, to put it mildly.

However, Drama Llama did not inspire my sympathy. So, instead, I twirled my hair around one of my fingers, pouted my lips, and blinked in confusion.

She sighed as if the weight of the world suddenly fell on her shoulders. “The fire ritual is thankfully a straightforward ritual; however, it’s still a magical casting requiring coordination and specific motions.” She leaned toward me. “We are the Sisters of Fire. We dedicate our lives to the fire dragon’s rituals, practicing day in and day out in the crater of our most sacred sleeping volcano.”

I nodded, attempting to look suitably impressed.

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